A Singular Man

21

ACROSS a black bridge, web of trestles over the river cold. Past the tops of warehouses and factories and down into dingy intersecting streets. Further to faintly lurking people along a rialto lined with stores blaring neon lighted bargains of socks, camping equipment, batteries and used parts of cars. Sad rows of houses east and west.

Herbert steering the dreadnaught limozine through the night, black cap on his black head. Dusty dark sky hanging over the upturned teeth of a cemetery. Sign of a can company rearing up, laying a carpet of orange light on the headstones. George Smith hands enlaced in lap. Lines darkening down the face. Leaving deep chasms of care.

One hour ago Miss Tomson left me. World gets gloom again. Red light stops the car. Old bearded gentleman crossing the street. Towards a glowing star over a temple entrance. If ever there was a place to hide. Out on these dismal flat lands. Feel all my blood is up for sale. Offered alive to medical science. Body steeped in bottles.

A highway lit with snakelike haunting lanterns. Blocks of buildings. Plastered box living rooms. Evening aprons and shirtsleeves. Where the men are sick and brides are brave returning from the honeymoons. While I was busy in another land. Poised with Shirl over a canapé. Instead of in these cardboard sprawls of charm and beauty. Where wives lean just gently over the coffee table. Taken from behind. Whisper what's your role in our relation.

Herbert raising his hand at a sign. Car pulling off the highway past a dark little park in a blanket of leaves. Under a bridge, the highway above streaming with the lights of cars. Herbert pointing. A forlorn brick apartment above a window display of medicines. Another window of a bar full of darkness with colored lights blinking far inside.

From the sidewalk Smith looks up. A few yellow lighted windows. Glass double doors into a dim tiled hall. Line of brass mail boxes on the wall. Running a gloved finger on the mottled metal. White square envelope sticking out. Between two names an engraved card from another world. C. C. B. Clementine, Apartment 6C.

Smith pressing the button for the bell. Waiting in the hollow emptiness. Door slamming inside. Sound of feet down the stairs. Someone talking to a child. Woman opening the door. Gasps, recovers and takes a little girl by the hand.

"You want in."

"Please."

"Sylvia hold the door for the man."

"Thank you."

Smith with barren steps climbing the stairs around empty landings to a brown metal door on the sixth floor. Knocking. Evening newspapers and empty milk bottles on mats by other doors. Roar of cars floating up from the highway down below. A dead squeak, the door opening a brief inch. Peer of a red eye. Part of a pink arm.

"My God, George. Come in. Thank heavens my message got through. Tell your Miss Martin I'm deeply and forever grateful. Welcome. Forgive me while I crawl Just this length of the hall And my attire. Only thing I have left is my hunting pink. My iron has burned holes in my airport uniform."

Smith walking slowly behind Bonniface crawling with an odd bark towards a sitting room. Through an open green curtain, a stove bubbling a pot of spaghetti.

"George I'm trying to teach Mr. Mystery to walk and bark again. I crawl to encourage him. Sit there, on the box. Which used to have oranges only I ate them all. Full of sunshine."

Bonniface pouring out a jar of wine. Handing it to Smith, who crossed his knees and tilted his head to listen.

"Smith it can't go on. Woeful things have befallen Mr. Mystery and me. We're nearly prisoners in here. We have spaghetti, we have each other. Woof woof."

Bonniface with white silk cravat stuck with a pin of pearl. Smelling into the spaghetti steam. Popping a handful of shattered black olives in the pot.

"George, I have not deserved what has happened to me. Have a plateful of this."

"I've just had frankfutters and sauerkraut."

"Combine it with this mixture. Blast off to heaven."

Bonniface ladling out the squirming starch. A trembling face throbbing with veins around the brow. A little bowl. As he opened French curtained doors a mite, to slip through from the sitting room. To return and smile.

"An entrée for Mr. Mystery."

"What's your trouble Clementine."

"Smith you're nervous and anxious. You tremble to go."

"It's a long way here."

"You rushed away from the beer and onions. Smith I do not want to give you distress. See you unhappy. As your great mausoleum rises a beacon to your cunning. Your astute mind and grave habits. I am your friend. I know the sorrow you suffer with your lonely austere richness. Have more wine. I don't question what goes between you and Her Majesty. I have Mr. Mystery. We go bow wow together into the future. The cold blank heart you have Smith. Come with me out to the airport. See the multi motored birds spread their throbbing wings and go away into the sky. Watch me in action as I check their tickets. I am a clerk. At the bottom of the ladder. You hear that, Smith. I give service to the best of my ability. But now I fade. I must get out/'

Bonniface digging into the spaghetti pot. Forking out more wiggling whiteness. Looking sadly down and shaking his head. With a trembling hand to the neck of a great wicker wrapped bottle. Pouring out the red sublime. Looking across a musty carpet at Smith wiping lips with his square of linen.

"Before moving here, I took up lodging with a person who could not read nor write. She steamed open my letters and took them to a relative to translate the contents. A little group was formed, other relatives were invited. Letters which I had written and torn up were pasted back together again. My little incident in the transit tracks came to light. They are blackmailing me. Tracked me here."

Clementine, standing lifting a piece of spaghetti from his cravat. A glass to his lips. Years ago he was thirsty. Took his own bride under the marriage bells and crossed swords of his regiment. Raised his little kiddies to the tune of finer things. Strutting through his rented castle marvelling at the damp contortion of each antique. Took George Smith by the hand to lead him to wedded bliss, with Shirl. From the vintage arms of Her Majesty.

"George, it's not funny. No longer amusing to be poor. I came here to catch my breath and reorganise. Promised a future at the airport. They demoted me. The winter comes. I lost my eye glasses on the subway on the way to Golden Avenue all the way from the airport when a departing passenger came through with the news. The train was so crowded at Breevort Street no one could get off or on. Mr. Mystery was being trampled. You threw that money off the roof. Why in God's name did you do it. Answer me. All right. I don't ask for much. Just a life preserver in the present tribulation and trial. I don't want to add to your troubles. But I need instant help. If not hard currency. Then spiritual peace. Unless I get out of here I'm doomed. Three minutes on the street brings me some misfortune. Without my glasses, I ask for directions, unable to see. I meet with unspeakable ignorance and implacable stupidity. Then on a bus I met a woman. We were sitting together. Travelling in some god forsaken direction. We looked out the window our knees pressing. We struck up a conversation. She asked me home. She lived miles and miles away in an attic. An area regrettably called Fartbrook. Took three hours, changing trains and buses. When we got there we climbed a fire escape in the back of the house. A window opened downstairs. A man and woman started shouting out wretched and unseemly words at her. I should have been warned. But I climbed on. In the kitchen she made me coffee and gave me a bun. I listened to her over the table. She had married a policeman. He made her commit variations at gun point. Unwholesome suggestions as to how his organ should be played. And even where it might be put. She had no breasts. The doctors took them away. Cost her all her money. The gas company squeezed off the gas. Electric company switched off the juice. Strong men took the furniture. Loansharks cruised outside, jaws snapping."

Smith jumping to his feet. Glass of wine splashing on the floor. Closing his coat and tucking his shoulders into the sable collar. Pulling on a glove quickly, gripping his walking stick. The Clementine eyes, wild and red. Burning with specs of glittering fire. A curtain fluttering at the open window. And the waves of light spreading across the concrete upturned palms of highway. For the rubber wheels hummingeast and west.

"What's the matter George. Sit down. You'll want to know about this. How she bought a set of encyclopedias, signed her name to a form at the door. Man told her a whole new world would open up of knowledge leading to extra earnings. She read till she was so tired she lost her job at the bakery. They tried to take the books back. But she clung to her treasure trove of learning. Put down that stick George, take off those gloves. Give them to me. Me Bonniface. Her name, Euphemia. She tried to dry her underwear on a string hooked to the attic ceiling. Which leaked. I blessed her. The clothes line collapsed. I nearly strangled. It was cold. Rainy. We got under the covers in the bed. We read the encyclopedia under the letter S, for sued, staggered, screwed, soul, swine, syringe. Then a crash as the kitchen door came right off its hinges. In the doorway was her husband behind his service revolver. I turned to D. To read under death and deliverance. I looked him right in the eye and introduced myself. Said I could not help finding his wife attractive. He stood there boggle eyed. We went out to a saloon. All three. We got drunk. I was only sorry I had not looked up flatfoot in the encyclopedia. As well as flog, frenzy, fondue and fandango not to mention fulminate, and fustigate."

Smith looking at the round light reflecting on the tip of his black gleaming shoe, bouncing quietly with each heart beat. Bonniface's eyes flooding with a warm regard. Tiny smile tugging the edges of noble lips. Leads the whole world to the brink, holds up a hand as he peers down into the darkness and says let's have a drink before we jump.

"Smith, I know you came here in a long somewhat strange car. I watched out the window. I want you to take me to the airport four miles south. I'm late for duty. We will take Mr. Mystery. He understands. Bow, wow. Woof woof. He knows. Wags his tail when he is near the big runways and hears the metal birds roar up into the cloud banks. Smith let me try on your garments."

Bonniface pulling on Smith's gloves. Putting arms into the sleeves of the fur lined coat. Looking down the long line of his person.

"Smith in a moment of wretched hopelessness I took my hunting horn to the airport, just to bring back memories. And sounded it while seated in the crapper. After a few sentimental blasts the police descended answering a summons to bugle blowing in the gents. Comes a time when one is forced to take matters out of God's hands. Across these lands it throbs and thunders. They are happy in their fat. I must go look in my bedroom mirror at this fine garment."

Bonniface opening the curtained french doors. Shattering crash. Smith stiffening, standing. A yelp and bark from the bedroom. Sound of scrabbling.

"George help me, they've got me."

Smith parting the doors. A huge bed lay like a hillside against the wall, propped crazily on books and magazines. Bonniface flattened beneath an ironing board, his fist gripped round the neck of a gigantic wine bottle. Photographs strewn on the floor. Of children, meadows and ponies. Bereft outpost, like room 604 Dynamo. Personal trinkets scattered between barren plaster walls. Sad enough to laugh. Just as he wandered without warning into Fartbrook. And I, two weeks ago installed a bath in 604 Dynamo, desperately needing to wallow in the warm of water. Secret plumbers came. They fiddled with the pipes. While one of them put his foot through the ceiling. A poor lone guilty operator in the office below saw the emerging leg and got down on his knees and started to pray. And just as he felt relief as the leg retreated, and the guilt was swept away the other one came crashing through.

"Smith help me get out from under this. I thought it was them. The white coats. Lurking and jumping on me from behind."

Entanglement of wires, a wake up coffee machine, an ironing board stained with burns. Floor strewn with cigarette stubs. And in the corner a gable roofed doghouse, the face of Mr. Mystery peering out upon the holocaust. As Bonniface crawled away to the bathroom. Legs jutting out the door. Head encased in shower curtain. Man of desperate strength, magically fading through walls, haunting the flatland boulevards. Ushering travellers out across the tarmac to the waiting big birds. Waves them bye bye. Leads the blind, taps out code to the deaf. Walks stiffly, quickly. Knowing every pause invites a punch out of nowhere.

Smith retreating to the living room. Twisted with spectacular death. Come tonight all the way here. With Bonniface twitching his elegant heels. Striking sparks with each click. Now sporting my coat and gloves. As night outside groans away with wheels. Bonniface swan dives from his ironing board. Till the bed hangs down from the wall. As my reputation waves in tatters. Overrun by a horde of low voltage hearts. The hot sunny day when the salesman took me, his prospect, through the marvellous leafy avenues of Renown. Told me of the beauty and permanency. Mr. Smith you rest in peace completely free of any rodent threat. In this little temple. Airtight behind that slab. Cleaned and polished daily. Fresh flowers on the mantel. And as we left stepping down away from that mausoleum on the hot sunny day. It blew up. Salesman ran for cover. Found him lurking in the shrubbery weeping over his lost sale. But I bought. One day I will scatter up the birds with a blast out under the trees. All salesmen, battle fatigued, are sent away for rehabilitation.

Bonniface combing his wet hair. Please let me wear your coat George. Just tonight. To have the fine feel of fur next my underwear. I'm not going to last, tuck up my cravat between the dark sable hairs. You have a car. I need a coat.

Bonniface leading Smith into the cold dark hall. Finger to his lips for silence as you go. A shivering Smith tip toeing down the stairs. Behind cool Calvin who said the janitor tried unseemly approaches for rent. Leaving a child's squeaking toy on the stairs. To make a squeal. Things they do to the near blind.

Bonniface's little key opening his letter box. Bringing forth a white square expensive envelope. Smith spies familiar handwriting. Bonniface nervously ripping it open. White jodhpur legs showing from beneath the black coat, and pair of grey socks nearly meeting the lower band of underwear.

Bonniface smiles over a purple bordered white card. Holding it to the light. Reflecting the engraved gold into Smith's sad eyes.George Smithrequests the pleasure ofyour company at the openingof his memorial at Thistle Plot, Buttercup DriveThe Renown Cemeteryon Thursday, 17th Novemberat 3:30 P.M.Flat 14, R.S.V.P.Merry Mansions Decorations will not 2 Eagle Street be worn.

"Smith very yeasty. Your pretensions are exceeded only by your outrageous nerve."

Together standing on the top step outside the apartment house. Where nary a moth will ever come to smash its little dust on a Bonniface window pane. Who stood a strange cold gentleman on the brick steps. In summer there were flowers and ivy grew. Smith waving an arm. Upwards four faint stars. A dry biting wind. The empty stretches of streets bubbling with lonely cars. And the odd scurrying figures disappearing in the beeswax buildings.

"Smith forgive me if I don't reply formally to your invitation. Which I should like to accept. It's the hurried times. How about a slab for me. Tomb of the unknown failure. You talk sideways Smith to present a smaller target, and hunched so the high bullets go harmlessly over. Have your horoscope cast. Know the truth of what lies ahead. Do I look properly shaved. One more weary effort getting nearly electrocuted to lop down the bristles. Hold that bottle tighdy. My God Smith, what an extraordinary machine."

Herbert backing Smith's car into the curb. Stepping out and smiling sheepishly at the two figures, strange in the surroundings, and the stiff trembling far eastern Bonniface.

"Herbert I'd like you to meet Mr. Clementine. We are taking him to the airport. As quickly as possible."

"Howdy, Mr. Clementine. Chilly night."

"How do you do. Indeed, a witch's tit."

Door closing on the two passengers. A deep throated click. Big cat of an engine. Purring. Exhaust tubes leaving white little wisps of cloud. Car rolls under barren branches. Away from this outpost. Pink brick by day. To a red light the end of the road. Along the edge of a cemetery. Up a narrow lane to merge with the fleet of cars beetling by.

Smith tucking up his parcel close under an elbow. Buildings flashing, big empty faces looking down on the traffic stream. Smith's dreadnaught threading a way through the cars ahead. Warm sweet country freshened air floating up under the legs.

"George let me telephone the airport."

Smith putting the nervous Clementine through on the line handing over the instrument. Bonniface's hand clutching it tightly, knuckles white. Eyebrows at half mast.

"Hello. Air Traffic. Fritz. Who is this. Get off this line, imbecile. Fritz, do you hear, I want Fritz. This is Gessunt, air traffic manager. Fritz. Gessunt here. Cedric Bonniface will be late. He was involved in a collision on the highway. Pile up of forty six cars. No. His was thirty eight. He's all right. Just a little shaky. Insists upon reporting for duty. He asks that his makeshift garment be overlooked. I suggest he be given a free chit for the Monarch lounge. Yes. Pity. Quite. He's utterly devoted to duty. However. Goodbye."

High wire fence. Flat lands and beyond, the wide marshes, meadows and creeks. Over railway tracks. How are you ShirL Bonniface unsmiling. Be an asset in my business. Personal all round secretary. Assistant ever ready with a ruse. Or fandango. Miss Tomson lays out her canapés this night. Big ring glittering on her finger. Amusing friends, maybe flicking mayonnaise in their eyes. Said men with big ones should wear long ties. Have her cool blond hand between my legs. Light it up like a torch to shine in any darkness ahead. Her marriage. Her party. To which I will tremble as I did to my first. When I wore a lavender suit. Went with just my innocent heart without presents or invitation. Hoping to get the jello, ice cream and pop. Instead of the two sad words I was served. Feeling aglow and different, little white lace trim around my broad collar. All washed and neatly ironed. Skinny legged down the street under the summer trees. Turn right between the green low hedges. Into the concrete back yard where they kept horses. I petted the blue furry dog on the head. Up the cement steps to knock on the screen door. Could see dimly inside across the gleaming tiles feet moving around a table murmuring with goodies. My idea was friendly. And they came to the door. Opened it, looked at me. And said go home. I waited all the way out to the street again. Tight throat holding down my lungs which pushed out my tears as I walked away. Back up the street. And home.

"Smith you nervously clutch that paper bag. You convert foolish riches in your heart and beautiful dreams in your mind, into worldly cash. Shame. Me think take pneumatic drill to get into this car without a key. Only simple pleasures left. My black liquorice toothpaste. My apartment mates think it strange. Steal some from me. And think I do not know. Yesterday I sold two pints of blood. To buy chop meat for Mr. Mystery. Smith. I took him to the park to meet other doggies of his own retirement age. Who also can barely sniff or lift a leg. But Mr. Mystery turned up his nose at friendship. Like you do Smith. Don't hold the world in distrust. It's nice out here. Provided you have padding for the ribs and protection for the groin. Good of you to take me to the airport. Talk George. Why don't you talk." the airport. Talk George. Why Smith eructing delicately.

"As you wish. Have you switched off the flow of gold to Shirl. Cruel man. Made her work. Wrapped her lawyer up in statutes till he screamed with the lethal legality. The habeas corpus haberdasher. The Otter clause. But me Smith. I don't mind. Others think you hard. But me. I have one request. Just one. I should like to wear decorations to the opening of your memorial. To offset forever the cremation ashes, my father in law threw over us at our wedding. Of a mixture from the family's bankrupts. You like that aspersion. You smile. See. We approach the lights now. Beacons wave round the sky. There. A Thunderbird goes up, full of folk flying to get there. And when they do, fly to get back. Enables more time to fit in misery at destination, than by rail or sea. Fandango. One good heap of heartbreak. Here we are."

"Herbert, stop at the entrance there."

"George give this little slip of paper to Herbert, he can refresh himself at the bar and restaurant without stint."

"I must go back, Bonniface, I have a call to make upon a friend."

"George I want you to see this port in action. Just for a few minutes. Watch me do my duty. Surely the passing of papers, scribblings, figures, dockets, stampings, trampings must be of interest to you. Go wait at the central pillar in the sky ways hall. Please. I ask you to do this. Just to have for a few random minutes, one human being close by who can see me in perspective. Smith, I'm truly sorry you are evil."

Throngs of people. Down causeways, ramps. Roar of engines. Smith in his dark suit. Spying after Bonniface Clementine, walking with Smith's black gloves, black sable coat, stick rapping the floor, blinking unseeing into the crowd, the white underwear covered shanks sticking into a pair of black shoes as they hurried him wayward and trouserless. Other eyebrows raised and faces turned as he passed. And approached the whispering clerks behind die long black counter. Two were pleasant looking women to whom he bowed. And they giggled.

Customers lined up to fly. Smith standing behind the pillar, in the center of skyway hall. Bonniface, the crustacean, back and forth, a white carnation stuck in the sable.

Smith silent. A lonely life watching from this post. Women with baskets. Trailing little children. Wild eyes in sallow faces. An odd executive in the swarm looking at his watch with confidence. Try that significant gesture, and my timepiece halts. There's a corporation president staring ahead into the next deal, chin jutting, hand ready to grip some other fish like appendage appearing at a profit. There goes Bonniface, penniless and amusing. On a mountain of cash one looks down with sad but wide open eyes. At the wailing below. Drop it down to them from the sky, promptly it lands, the eye gouging begins.

This dark journey across the flat lands to see the Bonniface. Share some of his misunderstandings. Least one does for a college friend. Like nights so many years ago. Standing under lamp posts, bottles bouncing in the dark. Find a ragged girl to lay up against some cellar wall. In a smell of rats and dead cats. Dream to be a merchant prince. Marble houses round the world. Run through the streets to Her Majesty's high brick house, shutters closed over the windows. Past stone masons chiselling by candle light with the great deal of dying. Rollick royal. Buds in the altogether. All comes to this. Bonniface scurrying by. Lower legs in underwear. Little sheaf of papers clutched in the hand. Makes a sign language to a customer under the blaring loud speaker. Promptly retreats the whole length of the counter. Stooping under at the end and into the gents. For the fifth time. Wants me to witness his kidney control in these jammed conditions. Goodness. He's back again. Some bladder.

Must get my coat back. Or appear at Miss Tomson's without outer accoutrement. Protection from her smart friend's elbows. Merry big Miss Tomson. I put it. All measured and mild. And upon it you slipped a painful ring of teeth. Feel them wherever I go. Even here, faint and foolish by this pillar. Your silken folds of wondrous little beads of caviar. A step into heaven. Hide me. Passengers swarm. Rest in there. Away from switches and wires ringing and binging. Bound to be a mistake. There goes Bonniface again. Under the flap, across the corridor. Into the gents. In view of your peeing history Bonniface, sprinkle the counter, and be done. Give air company little spray of heartbreak. While Herbert tanks up in the bar. Asks me home to eat with him and wife. Has tropical fish who rush to the surface as they hear him walk across the floor. Mrs. does my darning to save Matilda trouble putting my socks down the incinerator. To go essence of feet. Up the chimney.

A record established. Bonniface working for two whole minutes behind the counter. Pulling open a drawer. Another one, rustling in the paper. Just like Miss Martin does to show she's on the job. Whoops. There he goes again. Ah. He stops. Smiles at me. Gives my invitation a wave, as he streaks to the end of the counter. Under. Across the corridor. Into the gents. Must tell him, I go. Hither. Away from wind socks, control towers, loud speakers, and beams scanning skies. And madness on the tarmac.

Smith leaving the pillar. Threading a way through the advancing ceaseless mob. Side stepping a business tycoon standing in his tracks making an assured decision formulating future profits. Makes one homesick for Dynamo. Relive the thrill of that deportment. When they make the counter offer, smile thanks and regret one must repair to the country where it will receive constant thought till one's return to town when the price will be double, sorry gentlemen. Why you. And next week, triple.

Smith blowing nose. Frighten away nervousness. Push through the black swing door of this gents. A narrow long corridor. Neat row of piss basins at the end. No gentleman would take water from a conduit pipe. Please, a porcelain pitcher poured into a wide basin of same on the marble washstand. Joy of rinse, of towel. As Her Majesty washed, nose a symphony of flared nostril held haughtily with a delightful bone to a soft tip she often pressed upon my eager ear.

And here wash bowls, towels automatic out of machines. Do not pull twice in one minute. I beg your pardon. To such impertinence in the gents. And this square tall room where Bonniface does not seem to be standing. With his usual luminosity. By the hair oil squirter. Press. Personal pomade. Two squirts for the more particular. Prevent hair raising at the next business conference. Never to call a board meeting again. Or sadly sit in the chairman's chair. Faces of destiny flanking down the mahogany. Odd cough and sneeze. Gentlemen please don't be too scared to make a suggestion. I'm listening. Pass the water. Has no one something to say. A scribble or gesture at least. Just so Miss Martin can short hand some minutes. I want contribution from your minds. To cheer the single shareholder in his loneliness in carting all the profits away to his bereft, unloved vault, without bravos or hand clap. Gentlemen, sorry, directors' fees this year will be in the form of free tuition at the School Of Higher Graduation, for the diploma of Satisfaction On Lower Income. Bonniface has already graduated, ghosty and gone. To other confusions. Worry kills quickly in a sober crystal mind.

Smith looking at the small holes in the ventilators along the ceiling of the lavatory. Two oblong windows of a variety of glass impossible to float through. As well as bars on the outside. Over there. Nine booths. Three in use. What a pass to be viewing legs engaged in a function which clashes with my spiritual mood of the moment. No shanks of white legged underwear. In one of these he sounded the horn. Lone call back over yester year. As he sat, master, pink white and black amid the horsey calvacade. Baying chiming hounds, high fat tails wagging. Who blames him for sounding loud and clear in some distant cubicle. To call back the splendid country grass down the vale. Garlic lightly in the air. Bonniface leading the mounted contingent. Her Majesty laughing, as he got them, hounds and all, regrettably lost in gorse. All however right later that night at the randy roundup. The memorable farmyard antics at the hunt ball.

Smith standing dumbfounded in this latrine. Two gentlemen giving him the suspicious eye. A squat person winking and leaving his fly unmentionably open. Stay here and be detained maybe for attempted tinkering. Some sneaky reaching for my particulars. This is what I get when I answer a summons of a last twitching. Bonniface, the mirage at the log cabin window, rendering song on comb and paper. Been haunted enough. Saw you come in here. Wearing my warm coat. Miss Tomson will think I rented it just long enough to go with the car to meet her on the street corner. Instead of it disappearing on a spook.

Smith taking one last bewildered look. Feel thin, cold and banshee out this long hall. Eyes deceived. Too many months of irregular correspondence. Tripping into walls. Down open sewers. Last only a few seconds with the rats. Should never have come. Could be near Miss Tomson instead of lurking coatless in a latrine. With youth replaced with cunning. Age replaced by worms. Worms replaced with birds. And they go shitting out of a tree on my white linen suit in the summertime.

At the end of the hall. Set in the grey wall a door. Just inside the entrance of the latrine. Says private. Who knows. For mops. For first feels. Like I got from Miss Martin. Open it. In memory of a foot in past pails. Turn the nice smooth round knob. It will click open if not locked. Tug. My Gawd.

Squeezed and crouched. Former master of hunt, hounds and urinary horror. Bonniface. With coat open, two hands held high above his head. Gripping the gallon basket of wine. Turning with a gasp to Smith letting in the light of the outer world. Wine cascading from the bottle aloft. Shower over his head. Unstoppered by his mouth. Pouring upon his person. Unholy red down the white underwear. Drip drop from the sable. Bonniface attempts to bark. Choking under the flow. Hair flattened, full of wine. Struggling to get the bottle down. But blocked by the long handle of a waxing machine.

Cedric Clementine. One afternoon in autumn proud. Pink upon his pale horse. Boots and saddle gleaming. Waiting for the fox to be roused. No hound shall fault in sheep. One capital day of sport through bottoms and spinney. Across frost, furze and fog. From the gravel apron of Laughington Castle. Instead of here, deluged in wine. Employed and mortified. Full grown foundling. Unpromoted and sad.

Hello

Little someone

Anywhere

Dark and cold