TILDE

It was at the departmental coffee morning that I made the announcement.  I hoped the presence of homemade cake would be comforting and staff would come together to support each other through their grief over the coming days.

 

“I think some of you have heard the news I’m about to break.  I’m sorry to tell you that earlier today, while crossing the staff car park, Tilde was run over and killed.”

There were audible gasps, the faces of the men paled, Carrie the intern had to be supported into a chair by colleagues and Emily immediately demanded; “Who did it?  Who killed Tilde?”
“The individual is known to HR, but they’re not releasing their name,” I stated immediately, “it was a tragic accident and naturally the person is devastated.”
“Did she suffer?” Monica asked.
I shook my head; “I’d like to dedicate this coffee morning to Tilde.  Perhaps some of you could put on the ideas board ways we can remember her ...”
“I remember when I first saw her,” sobbed Carrie, “rooting through the rubbish bins.  She was never scared of us.  I remember seeing her fishing out a sandwich and eating it all in one gulp ...”
“I saw her catch a rabbit,” added Paul.
“I got used to seeing her every morning out of the window,” Monica sniffed.
“I took loads of pictures,” Jasmine said enthusiastically.
“That’s great, Jasmine.  Can I ask you to put them on the ideas board, so that we can all remember her, how she was ...?” I left the sentence hanging.
“Of course,” she replied.
The ideas came in fast, Emily documented them.
“We could have a memory page for Tilde on the Intranet with photos and captions.”
“A plaque near where she was run over.”
“A tree planted in her memory.”
“A homemade cake sale to raise money for the Wildlife Trust.”
“Excellent ideas,” I interrupted smoothly, “for those of you who wish to attend, there will be a short ceremony in the back car park.  Those who miss Tilde can say a few words and we’ll scatter her ashes.  Emily, perhaps you and Carrie could write a Eulogy?”
The request brought sobs from Carrie and a nod from Emily.
“After the ceremony I have arranged for counsellors to come in.  They’ll be available if you need them, but I hope that we’ll support each other too.  Please use this coffee break to share your ideas about remembering Tilde.  Perhaps Paul could put together a program for the memorial service.”

I left them speculating over who had killed their precious bloody fox.  During her shortened life, Tilde had paralysed productivity in my department.  Scores of staff had constantly stared out of windows at the mangy, flea ridden vixen, because observing a wild creature in the car park of a large organisation was so ridiculously fascinating to them.  Her death would cause a short term drop in productivity that would be more than offset by the return to pre-fox levels over the longer term.  Just wait until they see my figures for May.

SLOTHS

It’s a struggle, getting you out of bed to make breakfast.  After rolling a couple of times, you swing your legs over the side and I help by pushing your ample body upwards.  You sway, as if about to be sick, then it passes and you reach for the painkillers.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say lovingly, as you use the bedside table to push yourself to your feet and shuffle across the room, “how are you feeling?”
You shake your head, best not to ask, not until after you’ve made breakfast.
I pick up my tablet and start playing Angry Birds, giving myself twenty minutes of fun because that’s how long it takes you to finish cooking.  Then I attempt to move.  My head hurts, my stomach aches, every step to the bathroom is pain.  I feel better after I’ve thrown up a little and splashed water on my face.  In the mirror I look bloated and I’m wondering if that stale smell is me.  I take two paracetomol and lumber downstairs.

My plate is filled with bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms ...

“What’s that?” I demand, pointing to a red thing.
“It’s a fried tomato,” you reply, “I thought we’d be healthy.”
“I’m not eating that,” I snap, irritated because it’s taking up space that could’ve been occupied by a hash brown, “fruit tastes funny.”
“Sorry,” you mutter.
I move empty beer cans to make room on the table for my plate and we sit opposite the telly, tucking in to the greasy food.
“Shall we go into town today?” you ask.
“I don’t feel up to it,” I reply, “I’m knackered.”
“Me too.  A day inside doing nothing, that’ll make us feel better.”
I sigh, remembering those walks we used to take, the sunlight in your hair, the way you leapt across those muddy puddles, I don’t see you nimbly leaping over anything now, except empty wine bottles.  The clock creeps towards midday as we sit watching comedies.
“What’s for lunch?” I ask.
“We haven’t got anything in,” you answer, “I’ll call Charl, see if she’s going out.”  I settle back as you reach for your phone, “hi, Charl.  Are you goin’ down the shops?  ... Yeah, we feel really ill today, not up to going out ... That’s so kind of you, Charl,” you list the things we need – bread, cheese, crisps, chocolate, pepperami, pot noodle, pasties, an eight pack of beer and a two litre bottle of cider.  I smile with contentment, we may be ill, but there are comforts.  I hope Charl hurries, it’s past 12 o’clock and socially acceptable to start drinking.

An hour drags past; “God, she’s taking ages,” I moan.

You sigh; “She’s getting slower these days.”
Finally Charl arrives and you go to the door, taking the heavy bags from her.
“Wanna cup of tea?” you ask her.
“I’ve got lunch club today,” Charl answers proudly.
“You’re a lovely person,” you reply.
I wonder why Charl bothers volunteering at that lunch club when she’s more aged than most of the old dears there.
You bring in the bags and crack open a beer for me.  Out of the window I watch Charl, in her wheel chair, reach the top of the hill and disappear from view.

MICAH

She was afraid of nothing.  She’d get me straight into the fast lane and let me run.  I never felt any danger because she kept a good distance between me and the car in front.  I wanted to go well for her, so she’d never sell me.  She’d given me a name – Micah – because my number plate ended in MCH.

It was different when he was there.  He’d tell her the road was clear when she could see, talk through every move when she parked me and act all nervous when she drove fast.  If anyone was going to get scared it was me, but I wasn’t with her.  When he was driving me, I was terrified.  He was rubbish and knew it.  He wanted to make her feel bad too.  Sometimes she’d climb behind my wheel in the morning asking; “Am I fat, Micah?” or “Do I need botox?”  Then she stopped going out socially and dressed modestly.  I dreamed of the day she’d leave and it would be just me and her.  I treasured the fact we were alone together on the journey to and from work, but soon she started to go there less too.  I sat on the drive with a cold engine, redundant.

One morning, she was late and looking dishevelled.  Her hands gripped my steering wheel far too tightly and she took ages to guide me onto the busy road.  She was indicating for ages before changing lanes, testing the patience of surrounding cars and embarrassing me.  She started crying, tears fogging her vision.  My bonnet edged closer to the car in front.  Traffic is skittish in rush hour; she noticed the jam just in time and braked so sharply my ABS came on.  I was terrified and knew I would have to act out of self preservation.  I didn’t want to end up a write off.

Saturday night we picked him up from the pub.  He slumped into my passenger seat and off we drove, she asked him how his night had been.

He laughed, saying that his mates’ girlfriends were so much fun.
“So girls were invited,” she said.
“Yeah, but I didn’t want you there bringin’ everyone down ...” he slurred, his words sticky and spiteful.  I’d had enough, he hadn’t shut the door properly and wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.  I veered sharply and the door fell open.
“What the fuck?” he yelled, but he couldn’t hold on because somehow the handbrake had been pulled.  Round I spun on the lonely road, she clinging to my steering wheel for dear life.  I held her in tightly with her seatbelt.  I came to rest against the grass verge, side on to a tree, slightly injured but it was worth it.  He’d been thrown into a ditch, I willed her to drive off and leave him there, but of course she didn’t.  I thought it was because she loved him that she ran to him, but then I saw in my headlights the big metal steering lock in her hands.  She raised it and brought it crashing down over his head again and again.

“Thanks, Micah,” she said, climbing back aboard, “you could have warned me you were going to start things off.  I can take care of myself, you know.”

I’ve been on my best behaviour ever since.

PROTECTIVE CUSTODY

DC Tracey McGorrin led the blanket wrapped man from the house.

“Am I really free?” he asked.
“Yes, Gary,” she said, “we’re taking you to a place of safety.”
“Nowhere’s safe,” he replied wretchedly, “you didn’t catch her.”

 

In the interview room, it was evident that Gary, once a swaggering, confident, Cockney van driver was a shadow of his former self.  Before DCs McGorrin and Davidson could even begin, he’d asked again; “Have you caught her?”

“No sir,” Davidson replied, sipping his coffee, “the female calling herself Sadie Felix is known to us.  We’ve put out a warrant.  You must tell us how it all started.”
“I was with me mates in the pub,” Gary began.
“Were you perhaps bragging about previous sexual conquests?” McGorrin probed.
“Yeah.”
Davidson and McGorrin nodded to each other.
“She was alone,” continued Gary, “a real looker.  Out of my league, but then she came over, said she was new in town and needed someone to show her round.”
“That’s when your relationship started?” Davidson clarified.
“I thought I was well lucky.  All she wanted to do was shag and she looked after me, cooked amazing food, but after six months, when she’d moved in  ...”
“You lasted six months!” McGorrin exclaimed.
“You must be knackered!” Davidson added.
“I didn’t have any break from her.  She wanted it all the time, sometimes twice a day.  I told her ‘Sweetheart, I can’t keep up with you’ and then she’d cry and act all rejected ...”
McGorrin and Davidson nodded again.
“The food she cooked started tasting funny and I got the raging horn after eating it.  I found a jar of Viagra in her make-up bag, she was crushing it and spiking my dinners.  That’s when I ...”
“Tried to leave?” McGorrin enquired.
“I’ve never known a woman so strong.  She got hold of me while I was packing and shoved me on the bed.  She tied me to it and ...” he buried his head in his hands, “you say ... she’s known to you?”
“We’re currently gathering evidence against them, finding out how they operate ...” Davidson answered.
“There’s more than one of her?” Gary’s face paled.
“We don’t know who they are or where they’re from, but they’re turning up everywhere,” Davidson replied.
“We’ve put out warnings to men,” McGorrin added, “no bragging publically about sexual conquests, no promising women about how long they can last or penis size ...”
“No inuendos or flirting,” Davidson said.
“You just don’t know who you’re talking to,” McGorrin stated, “they look like ordinary women.  They can come from any walk of life, any occupation ...”
“The trouble starts when the man tries to leave,” Davidson said, “if he can get out he’s often re-captured.  That’s why Tracey is going to take you into protective custody until we catch Felix.”
Gary looked gratefully at McGorrin, she looked like someone who could fend Sadie Felix off.  He shook Davidson’s hand when it was offered to him and watched the detective walk out of the interview room.
“Come on, Gary,” McGorrin said standing up, “let’s get you somewhere safe.”
He stood up too smiling at her relieved that he was going to be protected.
“You lasted a whole six months?  Very impressive,” McGorrin purred, her voice suddenly had a silky edge and her eyes had brightened.  When she took his arm, her grip was strong, “I’ve got the perfect safe house for you and me.  Somewhere Felix will never find us.”

CITY RESTAURANT

 “This is Emma,” Jeffrey introduced me to his colleagues – Cosmo, Quentin, Elliott, Amelia, Susannah and Victoria.  The men wore Savile Row suits and the girls had hair extensions and manicures.  I put my hands behind my back self consciously.  These City restaurants made me nervous.  I never knew what to order.  I mustn’t embarrass Jeffrey though.

 

Polite small talk was made and faces pulled when I told them I worked in the public sector.  I was glad when menus were passed round, but before I could begin reading, a drink was placed in front of me.

“Bright red wine!” I exclaimed and felt Jeffrey look at me.
Cosmo laughed, we picked up their glasses and toasted the weekend.  There was the strong taste of alcohol and something else ...
“I love black pudding wine,” sighed Susannah.
I frowned at the starter menu - ‘Morel stuffed with blue collar cheese’.  “What’s blue collar cheese?”  I asked.
Jeffrey frowned.
“It’s from breast milk,” Amelia said, “women express it for cash.  Like they sell their hair,” she twiddled her hair extensions and smiled, “it’s ethical to buy because you’re providing money to a woman bringing up her baby.”
“We’ll share a bit of everything for the main,” Quentin decided and no-one disagreed.  We snapped our menus shut.
I muttered quietly to Jeffrey that I’d skip the starter and he leaned across the table; “I’m not ‘avin’ it!  You sittin’ there refusin’ to eat again!”
“So what is black pudding wine?” I asked brightly.
“Blood mixed with alcohol,” replied Victoria, “don’t worry it’s corporatocracy-sourced and totally safe.  They clean it after it’s been bought.”
“Bought?” I asked faintly.
“Emma,” Jeffrey warned.
 

The starters arrived.  The ladies had opted for the morel, but the men had some sort of bread.

“Pumpernickel soaked in blow torched back fat,” smiled Elliott, “would you like to try some?”
I shook my head.  A waiter filled my glass with black pudding wine.  I could feel Jeffrey glaring, so I sipped some.  The men talked about who they thought would go in the latest round of redundancies and the women waxed lyrical about the food.  “Won’t you try some blue collar cheese?” asked Susannah, picking up my fork and putting some on it.
I put it in my mouth cautiously, it was rich and creamy.
Jeffrey smiled at me approvingly and I took more wine.  How could this be wrong?  The breast milk and blood were bought from people willing to sell.  The restaurant was giving money to disadvantaged communities.
 

By the time the starter plates were cleared I had relaxed.  Jeffrey was smiling and my glass kept getting refilled.

“Here’s the main course!” Quentin announced.
“This is so cool, families making real sacrifices to stop over population in their countries,” cooed Amelia.
The head waiter put a large covered platter on our table; “Organic free range toddler,” he said, “with ramons, gremolata, honey shallots and violet artichoke.”  With a flourish he took the lid from the dish, “enjoy!”

DEW POINT

At its beginning the day cries. Tears form beads on grass blades, hang from the webs of spiders and drench windscreens.

Hope crawls reluctantly to its feet, stumbling over aching hills to dry the pre dawn tears in a much loathed routine. There must be a purpose to this, things have to change.

Exhausted from the outset, hope cannot withstand evening. The day cries again at the coming of the dark.