“She’s looking at me again”.

“Shoosh, Jack. I’m here.”

“She’s looking at me. Make her stop.”

“Baby there…”

“Make her go away.”

Moroe caught the clock with her elbow and snatched a glance at the hands trapped in the dead zone as she moved across the bedroom. The eternity of 3 am, confirmed by the clock on the chest.

“Baby please. You’ll wake the neighbours.” She dragged the dressing table stool to the side of the bed, and sat gazing at Jack. She hated this. He was hardly sleeping at all now and the last week seemed to have been hell. A deep breath. There was a long wait for sunrise.

“It’s too late.” Jack looked up, his eyes glazed with terror. “Make her go.”

“You’re drenched. Here.” She wanted to wipe his brow with the cloth by the bed, but he wouldn’t let her touch him. Moroe lent forward anyway, as though to stroke his hair. The terror was still in his eyes, but Jack’s breathing had at least begun to relax. His beautiful long, dark hair. The hair she loved. “That should feel better.” She’d put her hand over his, holding his pale skin as she had every night when Jack had his nightmares.

“Don’t do that. Don’t touch me. Can’t feel it, can’t be it. I don’t want you, I don’t need you, I don’t want…

“I told you to get your hands off me, what’s the matter with you?”

She sighed, and counted to ten. Again, up to twenty. Ten was never enough these days. Never enough, not even for five minutes. Jack the lover, Jack the heartbreaker. He didn’t mean it. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She just needed to get him through, then everything would be alright. Count again. She could count all night and it wouldn’t help. One, two, three, four. All under her breath.

“I heard you. Don’t say the word. Don’t say anything. Don’t breath. She drains your breath anyway. I know her. She’ll be here, just wait and see. I know her. I can see her. Coming for me. I know you. I can see you’re here.”

Five.

“I know what you’re thinking. I see you. Watching me.” His voice was husky. He’d been crying earlier. He didn’t know that Moroe had seen him. He’d been curled into a ball under the threadbare blankets trying to fight it. But she had been there, as always and ever, looking out for him.

“Jack, honey, I think you should sleep. That’s all. Where’s all this coming from? There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Scared. I’m scared. Scaredy-cat. Scared of me, scared of her. Scared of what she wants, scared why she hasn’t done anything yet. God, why is this happening? Get her away from me. I see her. Get her away.”

It seemed, for a moment, that she turned. Only slightly, as she moved towards him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He shivered. He could see her there clear as the far off day, and he understood her like no-one else. Jack tried to speak but his throat had frozen. But she knew it all. What he thought. What he would say. It was in his eyes. This wasn’t Jack the winner, not Jack who had the control. This was different.

“Sleep, please Jack. You need to sleep. You must sleep.

“There’s nothing there. Come on, just close your eyes. For me.”

Moroe stared straight at him. Jack’s gaunt face was grey from a week without sleep. His eyes were wide, dried the colour of burnt earth, bloodshot and sore. He pulled the blanket tightly around him. Moroe stood and walked silently to the chest. A water jug and glass stood next to the photos of Jack and Moroe when they were young. She picked up the jug and began to pour him a glass.

“She’s here. In the shadow. In the corner, there…

“Oh God.”

Moroe turned again.

“Too late. She sees me. She wants me. I know what she wants. And she’ll have me as well. I can’t keep her back any more. “

“Jack, please, just listen to me. There’s nothing to fear. Please. Just sleep.”

Day broke late, as though it hadn’t wanted to reach the house at all. The shutters in the upstairs window remained resolutely closed, as they had throughout the night. Jack would have bricked himself into the room had he been given the chance. Anything to keep her away.

The day’s papers, and the post, were stuck in the letter box. A bottle of milk was on the step. Already sour.

The curtains were open downstairs. The room inside was totally still. The light carried on burning from beneath a bare electric flex.

Jack had once lined the room with his most holy of possessions, his books. A few had made it to the shelves that lined the height of the room. Dust hid their spines. Others were spread about the room, on the table, in piles next to Jack’s chair, and propped upon the wall by the door.

One book rested open on its spine in the middle of the floor.

The room was resting.

Calm spread through the corridors as the light bravely entered the lounge. The dust was floodlit under the sun’s gaze and danced alone about the room. No-one looked in through the window. The door to the hall was shut. A shaft of light glimmered on the picture of Jack and Moroe that was on the mantelpiece. There was no movement in the house, and no noise. Just the dreadful and empty silence.

George came home early on Thursdays, but this time Martha had forgotten. She didn’t hear the sound of the mortise key as scraped inside the lock, as she lay basking in the warmth of the bed. Roger was by her side. Her mind was on other things as George arrived back at the house, and she lay in blissful denial of her husband as the sound of his boots scraped the polished boards of the stairs and landing.

“Martha love – I’m home.”

The rabbit clicked next to her, and Martha, who was in love, looked back affectionately. Just as the door to the bedroom was about to open she realised that her husband was home, and thrust her plastic partner under the bedclothes. She had not flicked the switch, and it continued to chunter as George sat next to her on the white cotton bedspread and put his hand over to her head to stroke her hair.

“Are you okay – you look exhausted. Here, I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Hanging on the side of a dream. That’s what he always said – Frank – when they staggered home each night, drunk and leery and in love with the world. To sleep on the porch, ready for the daily alarm, morning dew kissing their skin, safe in the swirling embrace of the ground. Kathleen never cared, she loved to feel the warmth of the sun as the day awoke.

A night like every other, they had started early, wine and bottled beers. Then it was on the move, to see the locals, the friends, perhaps back for an innocent coffee, or to swear togetherness by the side of the river, the summer sun setting its golden reflection down into the water.

One last time then. Once more. Kathleen stroked his head. The skin was greasy under his hair, streaks of the brilcreem silvery across his scalp. Frank had such lovely hair. Black as coal, she’d say, and they’d laugh. Laugh at themselves, at his dark hair and her blonde, at how they looked to be at opposites. To each other. And then they’d be unable to resist each other, and they’d fall into each others arms. Once again. Tonight. It wasn’t time for summer to end.

She walked across the yard, straight up and naked, as Frank lay unconscious. The morning breeze was warm against her breasts, and as the sun caught her skin she wondered what time it was, and whether she cared. The dew had long since dried from the grass. The air was still fresh and clear though, so still early in the day, before the heat made everything stale.

The autumn light haloed Fay as she entered the bar until the door slammed closed behind her. Inside the season showed in new autumn wardrobe that gave a distraction from the shorter days. She loved this time of year, always had. Loved the carpeted ground from the fallen leaves. Loved the fresh smell of the air, cleaned by the change of season. The natural beauty. The sales.

She’d been at the sales that afternoon, chasing bargains as she marched determinedly between the shops. Dave had always told her that shopping was her mission and he’d been right, not that she would ever admit it. She understood that retail therapy was more than the power of the credit card. She love to look, to hold, to touch. To browse, to imagine herself wearing the clothes, to feel the power that could come of a change of image – to Fay, these were the real benefits of shopping. Shopping was her therapy. She’s used it after they’d split. He’d used drink.

Marks and Spencer had been fairly empty when she’d approached, tempted the combination of the clothes and the food hall. Fay didn’t care what others thought of the shop. M&S was a favourite, a staple food for her consumer hunger. The lunchtime rush had departed, and she would be able to browse the racks of clothes unhindered by the irritations of others.

Slowly, methodically, she made her way around the half-priced lingerie that bore the saintly blessing of St. Michael. Praise be for the power of the thong. A grey haired assistant looked over, and for a moment Fay was worried that unasked for help would be offered. Leave me thought Fay, her face as devoid of expression as her sensible black trouser suit. She did not need help, and would not have accepted it had the assistant carried on walking in her direction. Unhindered by the present, the brief exploration was made thorough as she picked through the rails, gently stroking the black lace.

He used to love that. Always had, always would, she was sure of it, and one day she’d be at her best for him again. And win him. She reached towards the polished steel of the rail to locate her size, but before she could move she had lost herself. Dave had walked into her, mobile in hand, mind in the air, on his way to greater things. As ever.

“..a what? Yes, I do know what you mean, and yes, I do know your size.”

The tiny clamshell of the mobile snapped shut and he marched purposefully off, leaving a trembling Fay in his wake. She looked after him but he had gone, faded into the distance under the now cold lighting of the store. He’d got away. He always did.

The therapy was broken and she’d followed his example, running to the bar with her need for a drink. Damn him, bloody Dave. Why had he left her like that? He couldn’t see her yet he insisted on being seen, being around her in all their old haunts.

A sea of bodies surrounded the bar and rather than wait, she decided to sit upstairs, looking down on life below and taking refuge in the wine menu. Once, this great church hall must have been used for weddings, prayer, and celebration. How would the congregations from long ago feel, now that the alter was a bar, worshipped for its power over the mind. Or those who mourned at funerals, or sought solace through the church? Could they look in on the congregation now, those drinking? Drinking, in this bar, like she used to with Dave. Did Dave ever see her? Time stood still. She looked at the door, waited for Dave to come in, but he never did. Nothing. One, two, three hours. Just the ever-swifter passing to the night.

Amended 1 May 2005

Her legs were caged by tight blue denim, giving a second skin that ended with dirty white trainers. Nike, I think. She bumped into me by the bus shelter; the wide blue eyes not looking where they were going and the mind predisposed to avoid any chance of contact with the world.

She hadn’t seen me – and never normally would, I don’t suppose – until her stride lost its purpose and we collided, flustered, and looked each other up and down. Just two neatly trained steps back before carrying on, an ambiguous snort giving me a possible apology or passing blame downwards, to me, one of the many insufferables in her otherwise perfect world.

She walked fast, not quite running, but clearly with some urgency and importance. Big strides. Her body rose up and down, like a horse on a fairground carousel. Her arms swung quickly, whips to her movement as she charged down the street.

And then the water.

The white trainers just missed the first jump, the puddle in front of the post office, and then she was out of sight, hidden by the other runners who were less clear about their course. I was surprised she could walk that fast in those jeans, especially in this rain, and wondered if her trousers were the reason for her face wearing that look of such grim determination.

The room is almost bare. White walls look down, free from the burden of decoration, onto the uncarpeted and split boards of the floor. Once this had been home; now it is like a prison, nobody here, nothing to do, and only the slightest reason to stay. I don’t know when I can leave: trapped in an empty life, living each day like I wish it was the last.

Nothing of mine is here, for the few things which I used to own have already been moved, or sold. Besides, property gives the false belief that you have achieved something. I’ve given up on the idea of achievement. The only real achievement is survival. Avoid the self destruction and you really have something that you can be proud of.

In the centre of the floor, a packet of cigarettes. This looks hopeful, and so I investigate. Empty. The bottle, too.

Nothing to smoke, nothing to do, no-one to see. Not even the fag packet was my own. Some visitor, some time ago. I cannot remember exactly when. It seems not to matter. Sitting back in the corner, I look back over the room. It had probably been good to me, but times change, and the past seems not to matter. In the future there is always potential; it is only the present which really hurts.

Looking down, into my hands. Crumpled cardboard. I read the pack, again and again and again. Luckies, Luckies, Luckies.

“Not so lucky now.”

It seems not to matter. My lungs are still seizing from the night before as I survey the darkness of my room. A small shaft of light enters through a hole in the towel that I have pinned in front of the window. It gives up before reaching me.

There are people outside. Going to work. Walking. Talking. Smiling. Getting on with their lives, without a thought in their heads to question the purpose of what they are doing. Why don’t they see? The only way to cope is to drown your mind in a blissful haze. And what better way to do it?

The morning is already breaking, and it wasn’t the first one like that. The pink china mug was today’s victim, exploding as it hit the wall of the bedsit when I find it empty. No promise to the day there, and with the bottle gone there’s no poison to be had. Just the thought that perhaps I am really here.

More sleep.

By lunchtime I have regained consciousness, and moved to the park. A bench offers some support to my aching back and I find it refreshing, to sit in the warm air, sun shining and a light breeze through my hair. By lucky strike, I found the crumpled remains of a cigarette in my pocket and lit it with England’s remaining glory.

Edited 1 May 2005

Waking fills me with the horror of being. The duvet is a comfort that I do not want to relinquish and I have my usual morning struggle, whether to enter the consciousness of the day or hide in the darkened chamber, blackening my insides with the first fag of the day. This morning I get up, although not before I have taken half an hour off my life.

A shaft of light enters the room from the murky window that had somehow avoided my rages, where every other breakable item in the room had been proven so. The dark blue curtains are partly open, although I do not remember even getting them so far moved. Last night must have been another bad one but the memories have vanished, and only the hangover remains to haunt me. I cannot remember where I was or what I did. This is good; I probably don’t have too many awful consequences to answer for. It has come to something when this is the only thing that I can be positive about.

I dress slowly, concentrating hard as I fight with my clothes. I am already late for work, unless I’ve now been relieved of this burden. It seems not to matter, although I decide that it would probably be a good idea to phone and check. I shall do it later. Slipping on an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and spraying myself liberally with deodorant (and instant sex appeal if I could only get myself to believe the adverts) seems to be good enough preparation for the day.

Phone work. I have to clean my teeth first, as I do not want them to smell the alcohol. Mustn’t give a bad example. I enter the bathroom and survey the carnage. Bloodshot, fuzzy eyes, tangled long hair, the weeks growth of beard and the bruises (always the fault of gravity I find, it tends to get rather strong on the walk home), all reflected in the remaining corner of the mirror.

Today, as I have come to expect, I am not needed. Such are the troubles of a part time contract. A plan is needed, for I cannot afford to spend the day as well as the night in the pub. The prospect of making my liver explode seems a good one, but lack of money is a problem. Another Marlboro could help? And a drink.

A cracked class is next to the bed, and I drink to the remains of last night. The bottle is sadly empty. Somewhere there may be another and I must find it. Not in the bedroom. I go to the kitchen, but I cannot see anything, least of all a litre of poison. Focusing is getting to be a problem, pain has returned behind my eyes.

There are mixed blessings to the kitchen. Water is good. Hard floors are easier to mop. Cutlery is bad. What reason to add to the web of scars? I am awake, and so I have the reason. Today I have a red letter day, and I quickly wipe the envelopes before the insides are covered as well.

I find the whisky. It was behind the cornflakes. I celebrate this, and drink to my success. Whilst I am hunched over the table the phone rings, and I wonder who it is who has remembered that I am alive. A blast of ten year old courage hits the back of my throat, and I answer the phone.