October 17, 2014 by rebootingkaye

Would I lie? – a short story

Hi I’m Robert. You can call me Bob.

Before I start, there’s one thing you should know. I’m a liar. I can’t help it, it’s compulsive. It’s cool, because once you’re a known liar you can do what you like and nobody believes it. The only drawback is that, these days, I’m never quite sure whether or not I’m lying either. Weird as it might seem to you, the truth and lies are as one to me now. My life certainly seems fantastical when I relate it, but hey, some of it must be true. Mustn’t it?

Well, let’s start with a bit about myself. I’m tall, taller than average anyway. Six feet three at last measurement, what some people might call lanky. Long arms and legs, you know the sort. I was blessed with fair hair that has never faded and blue eyes that have been described as ‘icy’ before now. I’m not what you might call a ‘mans man’, no football or anything like that, I’m more genteel. I like my tea from china cups, that sort, if you know what I mean. I have been called ‘theatrical’ which could mean I have a star-like quality.

I live in a small flat, with all my things around me. It’s nice, in a bohemian way. Flowers grow naturally in the crevices around the windows, they occasionally even creep indoors through the cracks. I don’t discourage them.

My mother lives nearby in an old folks home. She’s mad. Potty. Has got worse since she moved in. She claims not to know who I am, but I can see in her eyes she recognises me. She was always disdainful of me, after all she was a success, an artist whose works sold for thousands, ‘til she went potty. Mother used to use me as her muse, and there are many paintings of me out there, the recognisable ones are mostly of when I was a child, she leant more to abstract as she got older.

Mother was always alone, I didn’t have a dad. Well I suppose someone out there must have contributed to my being, but she would never confirm who that was. I can see a resemblance to a certain actor, but I won’t say his name, I wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment. Besides, you’ll know straight away when you see me. The likeness is striking.

The first girl I kissed threw herself at me. She was twelve and I was nine. Her name was Barbara something or other, and she had brown curly hair and skin dotted with freckles. She tasted of aniseed, and I’ve never liked it since. In my teens there were a few more conquests, Jilly M being the most notable. She was a model, though I never saw any of her work, long-limbed and cat-like. She prowled around stalking me for a month or more before I gave in and took her out for dinner. Never let them think you’re keen. That’s my advice.

We saw each other regularly for about six months before she disappeared off the scene. It was ok, I was ready to move on. I don’t like people getting too close.

Now, in my thirty’s, though I still go on the odd date, I like to stay free. After all, my job keeps me busy. I procure precious stones for a living, which sounds quite glamourous, though I can assure you, I more often than not end up in god-forsaken places around dusty ill-kempt mining offices, manned by dusty ill-kempt men, where I feel thoroughly out of place. However, it is lucrative, so it’s worth the trouble, and I always have plenty of spare cash handy with which to treat myself to some of life’s little luxuries.

For instance, I recently bought a car. It’s quite a fancy one. Attracts looks, if you know what I mean. I would never take it up to its full speed of course (I am a law abiding citizen), but do like to zoom off down the motorway with the roof down just to explore. I love the coastline so often end up by the sea. The window here is quite high up, and I can’t see out, but I’m sure I can hear the swish of waves nearby.

Once I was lucky enough to be invited on to a friend’s yacht for a sail around the Caribbean. It was a big old yacht (he is a multi-millionaire) and each berth was nearly as big as my entire flat. Oh, I shall never forget it. The sun and champagne, the laughter and swimming in the clear waters around the islands. I came back brown as a berry, and my hair was bleached almost white. I looked fabulous, though I say so myself.

I didn’t see him, or any of the others for that matter, again after that trip. But it was my choice. He was a bit nouveau riche for my liking really. I preferred staying at the big old house up near Edinburgh, you know, with the gentry. Much more my style. We rode every morning. I loved the horses, the feel of their strength and muscles working, the smell of the leather, the steam coming off their coats after a gallop through the mist hidden heather. My favourite was called Warrior, he was (is still probably) a magnificent chestnut. The stable lads brushed him so that his coat shone as though he was carved from polished wood. He was a full 16’ 3 hands, and it was lucky that I am such an experienced rider, because he could be extremely feisty at times. Never got me off though!

The trouble is it is cold in Scotland, and there are midges. Millions of midges. I was bitten to death nearly, and that old house was so cold. Rattley windows, drafty doors. They might have been used to it, but you would have thought they’d have got at least the guest quarters sorted out. So I’ve not been back. I like my cosy little flat better.

I wish I was there now. Cooking tea. I liked to cook. Watching the steak sizzling in its juices, or seeing the beans bubble in theirs. I don’t have much facility for cooking in the flat though, just a small stove. Not like my mother’s big old range. She’d always have pies and cakes cooking inside and stews and soups on the hob.

‘Nothing wrong with good English food’ she’d say as she chopped up greens and potatoes that she’d grown with her own hands in the vegetable patch up in the west corner of the garden ‘a growing boy needs a hearty meal!’

Don’t get that these days. Don’t each much of that mush at all. Seem to be existing on the pills.

I ought to explain.

I was telling my sister about my latest venture. Did I not mention I had a sister? Oh yes. A busy body. Two years younger than me and she thinks she knows best. Anyway, she’d turned up at the old folks home to visit mother at the same time as me. Mother recognised her straight away.

‘I’m off to Botswana on Friday, to one of the diamond mines’ I’d told her.

‘No you’re not Bob’ she said, not even looking at me.

‘Now why do you say that? Do you have to be so cynical?’ I asked her, affronted.

‘Because you wouldn’t know a diamond if you saw one’ she said ‘and besides, not a single word you have ever said has been true.’

Well, I’ve already mentioned I am a liar, so it’s no secret, but she didn’t have to be quite so blunt.

‘Are you having an episode?’ she asked, looking at me a bit peculiarly with a raised eyebrow and patting mum’s hand gently.

Well, that put me in a spin. ‘An episode? What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘Look, fine. You’re going to Botswana. Fine. Why don’t you go and pack?’

Sarcastic sort she is.

‘I wanted to see mother before I go. It’s dangerous out there. They’ve told me I’ll need to carry a gun. I might not come back.’

‘You’re ridiculous. And besides, I don’t think mum would be that bothered. You know she doesn’t recognise you anyway. A gun? Really? Good grief, you are getting madder by the day.’

Well I had to prove myself. Had to. So I pulled the pistol out from my trouser pocket to show her. It was only a small one, for protection, but she screamed like a demon, and ran behind mothers chair.

The orderlies called the police. The police took my gun and called social services. Social services brought me here. To the ‘hospital’.

It’s not all bad. Some of the other people have had similar experiences. One or two have friends in high places, like me, so sooner or later, my situation will improve. I understand my sister, against my wishes, has cleared out the flat. She bought me one or two mementos which she said were of my former life, though I don’t remember picking up a pebble and writing ‘agate’ on it. It does look like my handwriting though. Nor do I remember buying the little plastic pony, or the foot long wooden yacht with the broken mast and holey cotton sails. It has the name ‘wisp o’ the wind’ written on the side.

She tells me she has sold my car. Got less than a thousand for it, and the money has gone to the care home for repairs (the gun went off…accidently, of course, and mother was only grazed) and to paying off one or two of the outstanding debts I’d accumulated.

Sounds like I might be in here for a while. In the meantime, the nurse, who looks remarkably like Jilly M, is sashaying up the corridor, coming to give me some more sedation no doubt. Seems like they’re not interested in my protestations in here.

Or maybe, just maybe, none of this is true.

Good night.

October 15, 2014 by rebootingkaye

Masks

Meg was feeling slightly sick as the little dinghy bobbed about on the swell. There were seven of them all crowded on to the little rubber boat, sleek in their wetsuits, unnaturally pressed up against each other, tanks propped between their knees.

She had got most of her kit on on-shore, heaving the heavy weight-belt on with fingers numb from the cold Atlantic breeze, and strapping the big bladed knife to her thigh in case of trouble. Then, with no dispensations for age or gender, she helped carry the dinghy down the pebbled beach from the car park to float it on to the matching grey ocean.

This was her first open water dive. A virgin diver, the lads called her with a nudge and a wink. She was the only woman on this trip, although there were one or two other, younger girls, who came to the weekly meetings at the echoey old Victorian pool back in London. That was where she’d trained and suffered, and very nearly drowned on many occasions, in the months since she’d joined the club. She remembered the first lesson, when she was told she would have to swim 10 lengths with the weight belt on before they’d consider teaching her anything else. Grim determination got her there, her arms pulling the water out of the way and legs kicking frantically, just managing to keep afloat. It had taken four attempts, but she finally succeeded and progressed on to the next stage.

Clearing your mask.

Doesn’t sound very difficult she had thought at the time, but it proved to be another stumbling block, that still she struggled with sometimes. The trick was to grasp the bottom of the mask and lift it up at the same time as blowing through your nose. Theoretically it should empty any water out of it. But no, usually Meg ended up feeling more like a goldfish peering through a bowlful of water at the world beyond.

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed, she became more confident and was eventually able to take the final hurdle, which was to put all the equipment on at the bottom of the pool. Again, it took several attempts. More often than not she just didn’t have enough air in her lungs to blow the water from the mouthpiece before taking a breath, and resurfaced gasping and spluttering, giving the men good reason to tease her mercilessly when she joined them at the pub after the session.

She had seen the advert for the diving club in the local paper. She had never been sporty or adventurous, but now she was on her own she felt she needed to prove herself, and it would be good to have an unusual distraction that took her away from the daily grind at the surgery, where she had to fix her smile in place to cover her almost constant irritation with both the patients and doctors. The other receptionists seem to cope all right, and she thought she did too until the episode with old Tom Burns, who had always been difficult and abusive, but this time he’d actually slapped her. Sandra, the junior, had been quick to call the police and they took the poor old soul away.

Try as she might, she couldn’t really remember what had happened. She might very well have been sharp with him. She often was prickly since the divorce, and sometimes said things she regretted later. She suspected, that that was why Dan had decided to leave her and go and live with his dad instead. A 15 year old boy only has so much understanding to give his mum.

Anyway, he had thought her new hobby ‘cool’, and she was hoping that he might even start to join her at the pool every week, even if it was only with the foolish and unrealistic promise of warm waters in exotic locations to come. At least it would be regular contact. Not like now, when he often seemed too busy to even talk to her on the phone. She’d tried texting too, but somehow her texts didn’t seem as urgent as those from his fan club of girls.

Now, though, it was her time. The virgin diver. She sat on the edge of the dinghy pulling on the big black flippers, accepting help with the tank, and tightening the mask, pulling out wisps of hair, knowing that there would be unattractive ridges on her face when she took it off. Someone turned the air on and she put the mouthpiece in and blew out as had become natural now.

She tipped backwards into the uninviting water. Hearing the now familiar mechanical sound of her breathing, she sent an ok signal to her companion and headed off into unknown waters.

September 25, 2014 by rebootingkaye

Missing you

Eric

I had a daughter once, she had a red coat. Red, just like that yarn that woman’s knitting with. I remember when we bought it. The wife had been doubtful

‘she’s only two. Red is a bit harsh for a two year old don’t you think? They’ve got it in pink. Let’s get the pink’

But I stood my ground. My girl was going to be feisty. Look out world she’s coming to get you! And (and I think the wife would agree in hindsight) it did make her easier to spot when she ran off, which she did, often.

Yes, it makes me cry when I think about her. You got something to say about it? I miss her. And the wife. I’ve got no-one now. I’ve just been left in that place to rot. Of course, they do wheel me out from time to time ‘to get some fresh air’. I guess they’re obliged to.

Well, not ‘wheel’ me exactly. I’ve still got use of me pins. Quite sprightly really. Not like some of those old buggers in there. Sitting in their chairs all day, dribbling.

It is quite nice to get out in the park, instead of sitting in the sweltering conservatory which they insist is ‘lovely’, and this young woman seems friendly enough, though she does insist on holding my hand to stop me wandering off. Perhaps they ought to put me in a red sweater.

Julie

What’s he blubbering about now? He used to be so sharp. ‘ Cut hisself on his own tongue one ‘o these days’ me mam used to say. Now though, he’s a sentimental old fool. Cries at anything. Good job I bought the tissues. He forgets about his nose. Leaves snot dribbling down his chin all the blooming time, It’s disgusting. Can’t even be trusted to wipe his own bum these days. I’m just glad we found him a place in the home. They can do the dirty work.

Mam insisted I take him for a stroll

‘hang on to him though, he’ll run off and fall in the duck pond if you’re not careful.’

Run off my foot. He can only just put one foot in front of the other. I don’t think he enjoys ‘strolling’ anyway. It seems a bit of an effort, and he just cries all the time. No point in asking him why, he’ll probably only say ‘sausages’, that’s about all he says these days. Can’t get his words out since the stroke. What with that and the dementia, he’s pretty well gone. Doesn’t recognise us. I don’t know why we bother visiting really, but mam insists.

‘We can’t just leave him there. He’s still your dad somewhere inside.’

It’s alright for her. She just sits there knitting. That jumpers going to be way too small for Keiran. Like he’d wear it anyway. I keep telling her 10 year old boys don’t want knitted jumpers, especially not red ones.

Grace

Nice to see them together holding hands, just like they did when she was little. She used to skip alongside her dad, and he used to swing her with one hand, lifting her little feet right up off the floor. You should have heard her laugh! Him too. He used to laugh a lot. Now he cries a lot. Looks like he’s blubbing again now.

I wonder what goes on in his head. He doesn’t recognise us at all these days, and I don’t recognise him. He’s certainly not the man I married… goodness, nearly 60 years ago now. He used to be dashing then. What my mam called ‘suave’. I think it’s a word she picked up from a novel. Swept me off my feet he did. Now look at him. Poor old soul. It’s been better since he’s been in the home. I couldn’t look after him, he kept wandering off down the street muttering to himself and frightening the kids.

I miss him though. Really miss him. Even as he was at the end. The day before he was due to go in the home, I looked up from my knitting and he was sitting there holding my ball of red wool in his hands and smiling, a warm smile, not a cheesy grin, but as if he was remembering all the old times with a glint in his eye. It nearly broke my heart. I nearly caved in and kept him at home. But it was only for a few minutes, and then he went all vacant again. Just like that. There’s nothing behind the eyes now. Just blank I think. I’ve just got the knitting to keep me occupied now.

Julie keeps telling me not to bother knitting any more jumpers.

‘People don’t wear ‘em these days mam. You can get nicer ones from Primark.’ She’d said.

She’s wrong though. Primark one’s don’t have memories attached.

Written as part of the writing 101 challenge – three points of view

September 24, 2014 by rebootingkaye

A mark in the park

Strolling through the big old iron gates, I notice that they haven’t cut the grass lately. It’s usually clipped to within an inch, but today it’s ankle high and swaying slightly in the cool breeze. As usual, there’s not too many people in the park, though a few are walking through it, using its path as a short-cut between town and houses.

It’s a school day, so the climbing frames, swings and roundabouts are all empty. The council had to rebuild the playground recently because vandals had set fire to it and burnt the lot down. Now it’s protected by security cameras on tall grey posts, looking for all the world like alien eyes.

Looking westwards across the open space I can see an old man throwing a stick for a rangy looking ginger mongrel, who fetches it back and drops it at his masters feet time and time again, tail wagging and tongue lolling waiting for the next time. He runs after it so fast his feet barely touch the ground.

Beyond them is the river. As I approach it I hear the rushing of water over the weir that’s situated just above the bridge. As children, we used to play ‘pooh sticks’ here, throwing out sticks between the bridge’s ornate balustrade and watching to see whose came through to the other side first. Now and then fetes are held here, and they have rubber duck races down the river these days. Today I can see one of the little yellow competitors caught twirling in the current under the weir. I wonder how long he’ll stay there before getting rescued by a child with a fishing net who’s come to catch tadpoles.

The river bank is lined with weeping willows that dip their branches in the water catching weeds, while the park’s lazy water fowl community huddle under them waiting for another stranger to bring them their next meal of stale bread. Fast food for ducks we called it.

On the opposite side of the bridge lies the formal flower gardens. There are not too many flowers at this time of year though, apart from the odd late rose. It’s always kept neat and tidy, apart from the ornamental pond with its not-working fountain, which always has a collection of rubbish floating in its shallow algae covered water.

I sit on one of the benches alongside the path. Immediately I realise that I have sat directly opposite a couple who are too busy smooching to have noticed me. I try not to look, but my eyes keep wandering back, just like his hands keep wandering to her thighs. It takes me back to teenage years. Long summer evenings spent knocking around the park, chatting each other up, and finding out about life and love, and all the grey areas in between.

I quickly decide that I should move. There are plenty of other places to sit, and I don’t want them thinking I’m some sort of pervert, so I decide to make my way over to the bandstand area, which is closer than I’d like to the skate tube, but should be quiet at this time of day.

However, I could hear the screech of the wheels on metal before I rounded the corner and saw that there were several lads there with their gaudy skateboards, clearly bunking off school, and disturbing the peace. Nevertheless, I sat on a nearby seat to watch.

They were pretty good. Their skateboards looked like they were attached to their feet as the swooped down the curves and jumped in the air before landing. One or two fell and cursed, though they didn’t seem hurt. There was a lot of cursing. It still embarrasses me to hear those words. My mother would have a fit.

I sit awhile, before deciding it’s time to leave. On the way back to the gates, I pass the huge old oak, where my initials are still carved in a heart alongside the initials of a boy I can’t remember. That was long before the skate park, or the playground, and before the lads or those lovers were born. It will be here long after I’m gone too I expect. I think it’s probably ‘un pc’ as my granddaughter would say, to carve anything into tree trunks, yet still, It’s pleasing to think that one day someone will look at those marks and wonder who ‘S.A.’ was and if she still loves ‘L.C’.

This is a short story written as part of the writing 101 challenge.

September 21, 2014 by rebootingkaye

Deadline

I’ve been in this room since 6:00 a.m. It was an abnormally hot night and I couldn’t sleep. Knowing I had a deadline to work to didn’t help, so instead of enjoying the comforting embrace of my bed, I came down here to the study, the coolest room in the house.

Surprisingly, it’s not where I usually care to write. It always feels a bit insular and claustrophobic. The ceiling height bookshelves with their jumble of dog-eared books seem to bear down on me, and it gets increasingly difficult to ignore the pile of bills and letters that bury the surface of the desk. Instead, I usually prefer to spread myself out on the sofa, with my laptop atop my lap. From there I can gaze out through the French windows across our higgledy-piggledy overgrown garden. I like to watch the wildlife foraging in its borders, although our neighbour’s tend to complain about it a bit. They have what Greg calls a ‘council house garden’, flowers planted like soldiers in colour coded uniforms

I went up to wake Greg at 8:00. He was still sleepy.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked unfurling his long limbs. If you didn’t notice his life-etched face and his cropped-to-disguise-the-bald-patch hair, you might think that my husband was one of those gangly teenagers yet to take full charge of their body

‘Couldn’t sleep. Ridiculously hot. Don’t know how you manage it.’

‘Mmm… it is a bit on the warm side.’

I threw the heavy curtains back letting in a burst of light.

‘God, what time is it? I need to get going. Have to meet ‘The Bugger’ in town this morning.’ ‘The Bugger’ was his affectionate name for his boss. Greg and The Bugger had been working together selling insurance since before I’d met him 22 years ago. I always joked that they were more like a married couple than we were. He certainly seems to spend more time with The Bugger than he does with me these days.

He left in a rush, half an hour later, barely remembering to give me my cursory morning kiss on the cheek as he went. At 47, I still think he looks dapper in his grey suit. Especially with that purple tie that Izzy bought him for his birthday last year.

She has to buy post-able things now she’s at uni.

‘Do you know how much it costs to post a parcel mum?’ she had complained, making what I imagined was an excuse for forgetting my birthday. As if I didn’t know! After all, I had been sending packages of food, silly socks and make-up almost weekly since she’d left!

As usual, I was thinking about Izzy when I opened my laptop, checked my emails, and then facebook, to see whether there were any messages from her, or better still, photo’s that her friends had posted. I love seeing those. They are nearly all the same – a group of four or five friends, heads together, all with raised beer glasses and all grinning drunkenly. Happy pictures. There haven’t been any of me like that for a long time.

There was nothing new on-line today though, so, begrudgingly, I open the file I’d created yesterday. I’ve been commissioned by a small local paper to write something around the changing environment and its effect on our town. It won’t earn me much, but keeps me occupied. I’ve long since given up the dreams of earning big bucks. The ‘school of hard knocks’ Greg calls it. All those brown envelopes with their grey rejections enclosed. I’d rather not bother any more, just do odd bits and bobs, like this article.

God it’s hot. Its only 10:00 a.m. and it’s unbearable. My head is thumping. So, without guilt, despite knowing how appalled my prissy mother would be (‘Geraldine! The neighbours!’), I strip off down to my underwear and pad semi-naked through the house to the bathroom. Running the shower as cold as it can go I step under and let the water run over my body. It makes me shiver, but not unpleasantly, so I stay there for a full five minutes before stepping out into the heat again.

I can’t bear the thought of drying my hair. I rarely tie it back, it’s not quite long enough, so I have to scrape it flat to my head giving myself a Croydon facelift as Greg calls it. Trying it out, I can see in the unforgiving mirror, that it does indeed pull my eyes up slightly at the corners, but it also makes me look hard and sour faced. I decide to keep it pinned up anyway though, just to stop it sticking to my neck sweatily.

I dig out an old shift that I bought when we went to a garden party a few summers ago. It’s a bit big now, but at least its pattern of yellow flowers is cheery, and better still, the soft cotton feels cool against my skin. It’s too hot for underwear so I decide to go ‘commando’ and, stopping only to get some aspirin on the way, head back to the study. The icon on my laptop is flashing to tell me I have a new mail message. It’s from Izzy:

‘Hi Mum

It’s really hot here today, is it the same there? We’ve decided to skip lectures and go and swim in the river instead – how exciting is that!! Might even skinny dip hehe.. – don’t worry just saying that to shock you. Go on admit it, you nearly fainted hehehe. Anyway, hope you’re ok. Speak soon, Iz x x’

Her emails always make me smile, especially the ‘hehe’s’. I can imagine her tittering to herself as she is typing. I respond:

‘Fully understand you wanting to skinny dip. Think I might go down the canal myself, perhaps take nana with me! Can you imagine us wrinklies? Bet you want to poke out your mind’s eye now!! Lots of love mummy x x x p.s. be good, and keep safe!’

Pleased with my attempt at humour, I turn my mind to the article I am supposed to be submitting no later than 2:00 today. To be truthful, I don’t much care if it’s late, but decide I ought to try and make an effort. I can hear thunder rolling in the distance as I google ‘environmental issues’ but the resulting sites are so broad I don’t know where to start, so try again using ‘environment+local’ and find an English Heritage site. There’s nothing new on there though and I realise getting an original perspective will be difficult. We’ve been warned about the dangers for years, God knows why the paper wants something from me now.

The light is reflecting on my screen and it’s making my headache worse. I draw the curtains and the dust that drifts from them makes me sneeze. In the semi-darkness I fumble about in the over-filled desk drawer until with relief, I manage to find the spare pack of tablets. I can still hear the distant drum-roll of thunder as I swallow a dose. I need them to work, the heat is stifling.

My mobile rings. Izzy set it up so it plays ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ when anyone calls, and I loathe its cheeriness today. She also set it up so that I can see on the screen who is calling. Now it says ‘Your hubby’ with a smiley face next to it.

‘Gerry, it’s me. The Bugger says we have to take the bloody client out to lunch now. It’s bloody miles away. So much for leaving early today. Glad I’ve got air conditioning in the motor I can tell you.’

‘You said you’d take me to the docs’

‘Sorry love, can you take yourself? There’s no real need for me to be there is there? Just make sure you tell him everything.’

‘No, it’s alright, I won’t go. I’ll ring them and cancel.’

‘No, don’t do that. You need to see someone. Just make sure…’

But before he finishes his sentence the signal fizzes and dies.

Greg has been nagging me to see the doctor for a while. He says I’m ‘not myself’. I’m not sure if I am or not, to be honest. Not sure who ‘myself’ is these days. Anyway, I certainly don’t feel up to going to the docs on my own today, and besides, I’d have to go on public transport which means interacting with the ‘great unwashed’ as Greg calls them.

Looks like the signal has gone completely, and when I get back to my laptop, the internet is down as well. Bloody heat.

The cotton dress sticks to my skin as I go to the kitchen and thrust my head into the fridge to feel its cold breath on my face. I half fill a glass with ice from the integral ‘ice-maker’ that we had been so impressed with all those years ago. The fridge is looking a bit faded now, its once shiny, brushed aluminium, exterior just looks a bit grubby, and there is a blob of black mould inside at the back. I dread to think what food item is embalmed in it. I fill my glass with juice, add a splosh of ‘something to liven it up’ and lean back against the metal door. Perhaps I should write about global warming. Today must be proof enough for even the most sceptical individuals.

I go to the front of the house and peer through the window. There is a miasma of heat rising from the street. I can’t see a single soul. Next door’s ranks of flowers are drooping and even Mr Next-Door isn’t out there with his watering can. The sky isn’t the clear blue you would expect on such a sultry day it’s just pale grey again. The days have been grey for so long now I can’t remember what a clear blue sky looks like. I hear the sky is grey all over the world.

Still there is no rain.

I must get on with the article. Closing the study door behind me, I switch the light on and sit down at the laptop. Irritatingly I have a connection again, so there’s no excuse not to get to work. On the web there is talk of imminent disaster – solar flares, holes in the atmosphere, and minute catastrophic movements of the moon in its orbit, but I don’t know which to believe. So much terrifying information out there, and these days it’s hard to tell which is based on scientific evidence, and which is just written by scare-mongering idiots.

Now the house phone is ringing.

‘Mum. Mum, it’s me. I couldn’t get through on the mobile. You ok?’

‘Signal went down. Think it’s back now though.’

‘We couldn’t swim in the river. There was a whole load of dead fish floating on the top.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Yeah, it was horrible. Some were still alive and really, like, gasping. They’re saying it’s pollution from the factory upstream.’ I could hear a wobble in Izzy’s voice. She was always soft on animals, didn’t like to see anyone or anything suffer.

‘That must’ve been ghastly to see sweetie. Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, yeah I think so. We thought we’d come to the pub, but it’s absolutely packed. You can’t get near the bar. I think they’ve run out of ice and cold beers anyway. Oh god, can you hear that?’

‘What? What is it Iz?’

‘Not sure. It’s really…’ The phone went dead. I had heard a noise. Thunder, I think. Maybe the phone mast has been struck. Maybe there is lightning. Maybe there is rain.

Rather than worry about my daughter, I feel relieved that she is quite possibly experiencing a downpour. Hope it comes this way soon. I’m sure it’s getting hotter. I open my laptop and look for a weather site. It tries to connect for about five minutes before I give up and look for a news site instead. That won’t open either. I console myself with the knowledge that everyone must be doing the same. It’s always so much slower at busy times.

I need another drink.

Settling back in the study I mutter ‘Patience is a virtue’ as I pull out my battered old notebook. I don’t use it so often these days, preferring to tap out my thoughts on the keyboard rather than scribble them in my embarrassing childlike scrawl. Despite the stabbing headache I try to start jotting a few notes. They quickly become smudged by the drops of sweat from my forehead hitting them.

A big rumble of thunder makes me jump. It’s definitely closer.

Then another ominous rumble. The laptop whines a shutdown and the light goes out as the electricity pings off. I open the curtains but to my surprise no light comes in. Instead, outside it is dark. Black as a moonless night. There is another rumble. Closer.

There’s no traffic, no people. The street is empty, dark and still.

Candles. I know there are candles in the living room, the smelly ones that Izzy bought me for Christmas. I’m not religious, but I am slightly scared, so I pray,

‘Dear God, help me find the bloody candles.’ Tripping over my own feet I manage to crack my shin on the coffee table. Is ‘shit’ allowed in a prayer?

There is a colossal boom, not quite overhead. Izzy must have been scared if it was this bad. I wish I was with her.

I find the candles, mostly by sniffing out their ‘Christmas Cheer’ scent, but there is nothing to light them with. It seems even darker. How can it be this dark at midday? And so meltingly hot.

Stumbling through to the kitchen, I feel sure my leg is bleeding, it feels wet, but I can’t even see enough to inspect it. It’s eerily quiet without the whirr of the fridge and tick of the oven timer. I grapple around on the worksurface and eventually grasp what I recognise to be the gas-lighter. As I click it on, another boom of thunder makes the house shudder in its foundations.

With trembling hands I manage to light the candle. It’s a pathetically small flame, but I can just see the almost empty gin bottle and I swig back the dregs in one gulp before heading back to the living room. Then I freeze, my skin prickles and erupts into goosebumps, as a rumble that starts low pitched and rises to an almighty heart-stopping crack, shakes the house so hard that I hear it imploding.

Screaming my daughter’s name I run to the door and fumble with the lock until it swings open. The sky is no longer black, but a shimmering saffron heralding a savage, searing wind that bowls me backwards.

Now there is nothingness. No rain, no street, no houses. No Mr & Mrs Next-Door or their soldier flowers. The Bugger, Greg and Izzy, are all gone. I glimpse the vastness of the universe before my flame gutters and dies.