I turn out the light and say goodnight.

He calls me back to ask: if he needs me during the night, can he shout out.

Of course, I say, I’ll always be there.

He sleeps through.

In the morning, my parents phone to see how I am.

Some lights never go out.

I have a christmas present, shaped like a wand, which has remained unopened since 1993.

It was for my brother who died that Christmas. I knew he was dying, but even so I bought and wrapped it.

Sometimes I take it out of the drawer and wonder why.

I don’t think I’ll ever open it.

But perhaps, when it no longer matters, my son will.

A day can last as long as you want.

All that’s needed is the ability to listen.

It was the summer of 1978 or maybe it was 1979. I was playing in the woods near my house. It was an adventure before tea time.

Stepping through brambles and over ditches, the air became filled with the floating white seeds of dandelions. It was like leaving Narnia.

I sneaked back out, later that evening, but the air had cleared.

“Make a wish,” he says to his Mummy. “Close your eyes.”

She wishes the three of them could be happy forever.

“Keep your eyes closed.” The words of a four year old. The tone of authority.

He summons me to him with a gesture.

Closer, he indicates.

Then, with both hands he moulds my face into a smile.

There, he mimes, hold it like that.

Fixing his own smile, he instructs his Mummy to open her eyes.

“See,” he says with a wave of his hands, “your wish has come true.”

“We lost another one.”

“Another? Really? Where was it this time?”

Mick pointed in the direction of the ancient oaks that arched above the crumbling crypts. “The medieval quarter. Same place as last week. Same gang, probably.”

A stony silence fell between the pair as Lou considered the situation. “But that means…”

“It does,” said Mick.
“Fuck,” said Lou.
“Yes,” said Mick.
“Shit,” said Lou, “There goes Gabe, then. Damn, what a waste. He was the best of us.”
“Hey!” said Mick.
“Well, ok, second best. Better than me, anyway and I’m still here.”

“You’ll be here until the end of time, you will.” Mick gazed over at medieval quarter. “It’s bad enough that we ended up trapped in these bodies, watching over dead humans; but to be subject to vandalism and, lately, even murder. Well that’s just too much. If this were the old days and I had my sword… Then they’d see a thing or two. I’d soon fire and brimstone and mighty vengeance their asses.”

“Now you’re talking my language, Michael. Still, you should have joined me when you had the chance. Then we wouldn’t be stood here having this conversation.”

Mick continued his surveillance of the medieval quarter. Headstones lay like unpaid soldiers in the aftermath of a riot of flowers. “Lou?”

“Yes Michael?”

“We’re becoming irrelevant, aren’t we?”

“We are indeed, Michael. And, thanks to infinite wisdom and all that jazz, nobody is making any more of us.”

A rabbit bounded on a nearby grave which lay fat with soil. With nothing but dirt to feed upon, the rabbit opted to follow Mick’s unwavering, finger. If you can’t trust an angel, it might have thought, what can you trust? And deep within his rocky bones, the archangel clung to the same faith.

“Lou?”
“Yes Michael?”
“What happens to us? Where do we go when we die?”

photo courtesy of Jay Sharples

This is where we tortured Mrs Jones.

“These are the castles of your generation. Shells of buildings ravaged by cutbacks, they should be managed by English Heritage.”

I’m listening, sort of. But it was easy being distracted by memories. The old place had been left to street kids years ago. A desk was still visible, and pieces of broken blackboard were scattered here and there but otherwise you’d be hard pressed to know this had been a school at all.

God, what a waste.

I should say something to him. After all these years and here in this place again, I should say something.
Elongated fish people with spliffed-out faces look on from broken walls, sunlight illuminating faces waiting to learn.

“Mr Jones, I have something to tell you.”

“It’s about her, isn’t it? About Edith?”

All these years and I never knew her first name.

“Don’t look back, my boy. I know what she was like. I knew what you all thought of her. Water under the bridge and all that. Wondered how long it would take you to mention her.”

“But her life, we made it a misery.”

“She understood. Fighting with teenagers was just a part of the job. You never really won, you know. You just tore chunks out of your own futures. But students like you made it worthwhile. She thought highly of you. She saw what you were capable of.”

“I was no better. I joined in. I laughed when she cried after all the tricks and went along with burning her books at the end of the year.”

“And now you’re here, pushing your old headmaster around abandoned schools when you could have parked me in front of a TV somewhere. You care. If she taught you nothing else then that would be enough.”

I want to say more. I want to make up for the years. For being a child. Instead I look at my watch. It’s 3:30. Time to go home.

photo courtesy and copyright of Jay Sharples – mcrstreetart.blogspot.com

He doesn’t like cheese. Can’t stand the smell of it, he says. Can’t stand the smell so won’t like the taste. I’ll be honest, it’s a struggle knowing how to move forward from that. I need to accomplish certain things whilst I’m here, and this isn’t a great start.

But do I want to know.

So I ask about the smell. What is it he doesn’t like?

There’s a pause. Like his dead dog had just come back with a stick in its mouth. He stands to his full height then stretches some more, showing his great belly to me without a single care. He knows I’m not who I say I am.

It’s the smell of cheese frying, he tells me. That’s what puts him off. It’s what stops me too. Frying? Who fries cheese? Everyone fries cheese, he tells me. His wife saw it on the telly and now won’t stop doing it. With milk, he adds. Cheese fried in milk.

I’m losing it. I know I am. The situation is getting out of hand. But you can’t fry cheese in milk. You just can’t. That’s not what frying is. I think I’m right. Doesn’t matter to him though. Frying’s what he wants it to be. Always has been. In his world, everything is what he wants it to be. And this is, most certainly, his world.

I should shut up and finish this. I should. But if you don’t like cheese because your wife fries it, in milk, then your real problem is her. I offer this as an observation.

His eyes twist deep into me. Not once have they looked down at the box I’m carrying.

He doesn’t like cheese. So he won’t like pizza. And if he doesn’t like pizza, then why would he order one?

I find myself more upset at the knowledge I won’t be getting paid for this one than whether or not I can reach my knife in time.

We lasted a day, you and I, in the bright autumnal sunshine. We lasted a day and never spoke but listened instead to the dusty shuffle of feet. Around us, the curtains hung like shrouds, shredding the light and laying shadows upon your face.

We lasted a day before you faded away.

It wasn’t love that brought us together, your heart too fragile for such frivolity. I just had time to kill. Time to sit beside the stranger for whom an entire hospital held its breath.

Led to your side I wanted to talk, but my news seemed too full for your already bloated belly and my words died on your cold lips. So I sat, shyly at first and a short distance away, remembering how I felt on a first date or as the new boy at school. I tried counting time against the clatter of cutlery at neighbouring beds but time seemed patient and I stayed.

I even, briefly, held your frail hand.

But no words.

Instead, ours became a love affair of listening. With me hearing each tiny sigh you sent back into the world, and you the tectonic shift of tumours colliding within. Our relationship held steady and nurses brought sandwiches and drinks as though to keep me sweet, embarrassed, perhaps, that you were ever alone. We were strangers, sure enough, but all love starts that way.

I fooled myself into thinking it could last, into thinking I could stay or maybe you could stay. But it couldn’t last. You only get to love a person once. Maybe for a few hours, maybe for the rest of their life. Sometimes it is both.

I left first. Leaving you alone once more, as I ran the length of the corridor towards the sound of my second son being born; a new stranger to love.