short

I’ll Meet You In The Undertow

Sunlight leaks through the cracks in the blinds, the light pouring through in dusty beams. It’s 7:30 and Mark’s alarm clock is singing a grating pop song. Mark rolls over in bed pulling the pillow over his head. He reaches an arm over and hits snooze.
Silence. Not asleep and not awake he feels his dream slipping away from him, a dream where he was somewhere green, peaceful. A park? He was walking with somebody. A woman. But her face has blurred and disappeared into the mist. He just sees a hand held out, open. Then it fades. He tries to cling onto the feeling, a sensation that he is completely free and happy. He doesn’t feel this very often, but in sleep he goes someplace, a place he wishes he could stay but knows he cannot. His breathing gets heavier, deeper. He drifts off again.
7:35. Rise and shine you’re listening to Buzz FM. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll be with you until 9, taking you to work. Now here’s Sharon with the news…
Snooze.
7:40 And that was the news. Now over to…
Snooze. And every time he hits that button he feels himself slipping further away from where he wants to be. Like a balloon slipping from a child’s hand he floats up and up, into consciousness. Into a world where he has to think his own thoughts, live among other people, work and socialise and fuel his body with food, caffeine, nicotine. A world where he doesn’t know his place but has to try and fit himself in to a baffling and colossal machine. What purpose has he here? What does it mean? How long will he feel this useless and disorientated? Another week? month? year? forever?
7:45. Right time to get up. I’m going to get up. Just open my eyes and pull the duvet back… it feels cold outside the bed, it’s warmer here… come on need to have a shower. When did you last shower? Thursday? I should have had one yesterday it was the weekend. Monday morning, back to the grind. Right.
One foot slips out from under the duvet and towards the carpet, the other follows. A hand pressed on the mattress sheets creasing out. The other hand behind pushing up, body rising, sitting on the bed now, now upright. Okay. Let’s go.
Everything else happens in a blur of routine, dressing gown on, quick steps down the stairs one two three four five six seven thinking about coffee coffee no time to make a pot, bit of instant in a mug. Now in the kitchen a jet of water shooting into the kettle clicked into place, presses the button. Mug. Spoon. Nescafe Gold Blend. Shouldn’t really buy it but it’s what I’m used to and I like it. Twists the lid off, a special treat today, a new foil to break through. Crack. Tear. Wake up and smell the coffee. Opens the fridge and gets the milk, gives it a smell, think it’s still okay, I’m putting it in boiled water anyway so it’ll be fine it’s not going to kill me what if it did? it's not going to don’t be silly. The kettle now coming to life, the water inside rolling and hissing. Toast. Two slices in the toaster. A plate from the cupboard. Kettle’s boiled. Poured into a cup swirling black and specked with froth, milk and two sugars, stir it up, clink clink the spoon against the side of the mug. Pop. The toast is done, two slices of wholegrain and a good slab of butter smeared across almost tearing the bread but not quite. Bit of jam on one, the other as it is. Plate in the left hand, coffee in the right, a little slosh up and over the top onto the kitchen floor as he strides into the living room, sitting down on the sofa, laying the toast and coffee on the table. A sip of coffee. Mm. Eyes up a pack of Benson & Hedges on the table, pauses, snatches the pack up open and draws one out placing it softly between his lips. Sparking the lighter, a quite fizz and crackle as it lights. He inhales. Exhales.
Look at the time! Shit. He stubs out the cigarette, gulps a last mouthful of coffee, charges towards the shower. Turns it on, a hand in cold, warmer now. The dressing gown falls to the floor and he looks at his flabby body in the mirror. How did I get like this? He dismisses the thought, steps in under the hot water. A squirt of shower gel, rubbing the foam across arms, chest, legs. Singing as he rubs the loofah down his back, elbow above his head, somewhere over the rainbow way up high, there’s a land that I dreamed of once in a lullaby. He stops, disappointed with his voice even in the forgiving reverb of the cubicle. Mark stands on one foot and goes between the toes, rinsing and resting them haltingly on the floor being careful not to slip over. He finds himself getting lost in the warmth, closing his eyes. No time for this, I’ll wash my hair tomorrow.
He gets out to the gentle kiss of a warm towel, fluffy pile of cotton against his face. He wraps it around himself and picks up the razor, running it under the cold tap. A squirt of shaving foam on the cheeks, scraping away a few days growth. He rinses, slaps on his aftershave with a soft sting, a new scent he picked out from Boots. Smells good.
Later, fully clothed he is in the car to work. Fed up of Buzz FM he pushes a tape in, a mixture from long ago. As he hears those firsts chords he is back in a different time. He thinks of his mates at sixth form, hanging out on the steps, passing a joint under the sun, the sky reflected blue in a puddle. Sharing dreams, ideas. The optimism of youth. A foot on the brakes, sudden. The car in front stopped for a woman pushing a pram on a zebra crossing. I must pay more attention. He turns the music off and drives on, pulling the sun visor down. Checks the speedometer. 30 mph exactly.
Ten minutes of nothing, the same route he has driven every day. He sees a suited man with a briefcase on one side, a school-kid cycling a bike takes a left towards the town centre. He carries on. His office is situated in an industrial park on the outskirts. A few trees, a meagre patch of grass. His building rising up grey. He pulls into the carpark, reversing with the expertise of routine. He paces the tarmac towards the front door, adjusting his tie and smelling his breath. Did I brush my teeth today?










Hi Rebecca you alright? Yeah fine thank you. Yes it was good thanks, very restful, how was yours? Oh that sounds nice, how is he? Good, I’m glad. See you at coffee time.
Mark sits in his cubicle, shuffles his papers around. Turns on the computer. Emails. One from his brother Tom, he’s buying a new lawnmower. The rest is junk. Penis enlargements, Viagra. Where do they get his details? He deletes them.
“How’s it going with the Marlbrook account? Any progress?”
“Getting there sir.”
“Good. Keep it up. I want the it done by the end of the week.”
Mark opens the spreadsheet and a sea of numbers flash up. For a moment he is swimming in them, his eyes gliding across the surface seeing what he’s done so far, and what needs to be done. Then he starts drowning, the number drift out of focus in front of his eyes. He takes a deep breath, opens the book and starts slowly typing in the information. He stares at the screen, realising he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What is his job again? He has been doing it for years, so why does he feel like a child lost in the supermarket, the aisles closing in under blazing striplights? He stands up and makes his way to the toilet. A stick man on the door tells him he’s in the right place. He notes the crudely scratched smiley face on the sign and smiles back, opening the door.
The toilet is empty. Good. Mark locks himself in the cubicle, feels like screaming. Instead he gives himself a talk. Come on man pull yourself together. You are perfectly capable of crunching numbers in a stupid office. This isn’t beyond you. Soon there will be a promotion. A new car. You’ll be out of the cubicle and into your own space, executive toys on the table, a pinstripe jacket hanging on the back of a plush swivel chair. You are intelligent, capable. He tries to remember the mantra from that tape that he bought in a moment of intended self-improvement, but can’t even remember the name of the cassette. The Will to Work? Something like that. Useless. He flushes, redundantly, but feels somehow purged. He steps out, splashes his face in the tap and strides out and along the corridor, a rag of toilet paper briefly dragged under his half-shiny shoes.
Outside. Fresh air. Yes. What am I doing? I’m meant to be at work. They don’t pay me to go off for a walk. Will they notice I’m not there? Eventually. I don’t care I’m not going back in there. I’m going to get an ice cream.
Leaving his car he walks along the road. It’s a long way into the town, but he sets a decent pace. Mark loosens his tie, opens the top button. It feels good. His shirts are getting a bit tight on the neck but Mark refuses to buy a new one. He looks at the clouds above and it makes him think about his duvet, but he doesn’t want to go back to bed.
Just then Mark hears the merry tinkle of an ice cream van tolling from the estate nearby. He turns the corner walking towards the sound. In the distance he sees the blue and white van. It feels like a sign.
“Alright mate, what can I do for you?”
“One 99 flake please.”
“Sauce?”
“Yeah strawberry. Thanks.”
“That’s £1.20 to you.”
“How much is it to everyone else?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Here you are.”

He ambles along the road, looking at the empty driveways and blank windows. Everyone’s at work. An old man is tending to his flowers. He waters them and pulls a stray weed up with a practiced tug. He turns around and Mark smiles.
“Morning!”

The old man smiles to himself and continues watering. The droplets pour out from the sprinkler in slender arcs. Mark does a little jump and kicks his heels together, chuckling to himself. He carries on walking normally pausing to light a cigarette. He looks at the little mole on his wrist, the one he first noticed last week. He sits on the kerb, the cigarette burnt half down. A hand slides into his pocket drawing out his mobile phone. The battery is getting low. He looks through the menu, skipping down through name after name, pausing over Helena. He reads the letters sounding the name out to himself. It sounds strange, alien. So many times he has thought of calling her, how long has it been now? A long time. With uncharacteristic bravery he presses the green button. The phone rings in his ear. No answer. He puts the phone back in his pocket and walks down the street, sees a footpath and follows it, not knowing where he is going. He takes on a kind of inertia, not speed but a determination and weight to every step which is at odds with how lost he feels.
Walking now by trees, now down another street, he continues. Over a bridge. He is now walking into headlong traffic on the right hand side of the road, cars swerving around him. His eyes scratch along the shrubbery and settle on a stile which he hurdles with ease. The path now muddy he looks at his shoes, the mud caking them, soiling the night black patina. He continues, the road sounds disappearing now, taken over by the rabid gargling of a river, banks full to bursting. Mark realises it has been raining. No matter. He looks at the water, the surface, static yet vital. He walks forward, left foot first, then the right, his feet now submerged, water pours into his shoes and he likes it. Another step, a bit deeper. The bottom is slippery. Deeper and deeper, until completely submerged he lies back and lets the river carry him away, and in the flow of the water he remembers the dream of the open hand.