SUBURBAN NIGHTMARES:
A diary of domestic decay
by ben tallon & rob c. bartlett
On the 27th Day
Written by Ben Tallon
It was almost lunchtime on the 27 December when they got out of their dressing gowns. Janine felt disgusting. Every one of her joints cricked as she struggled into yesterday’s pissy house pants and one of Harold's musty t-shirts. The curtains denied access to the midday light and any joy it might have beamed into their stink pit. The TV played nothing worth watching, for nobody, and the images, one by one, hammered her into a deeper dark on some indecipherable subconscious level.
Downstairs, Harold mumbled something about a newspaper and a few bits from the shop as be bumbled past her, his shirt fastened, but all the buttons in the wrong holes. He belched, then audibly strained as he opened the cupboard doors, and stared. Chewing his lip, his eyes seemed to pump, and deflate like a toad's neck. She wondered if she might be embellishing a scene she'd seen too often, for too many years. Maybe fleeing from its tragic predictability. Then, he slowly, solemnly withdrew an 'Eat Natural' protein bar, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or run, for both of their sakes.
'Right, won't be long.' He grumbled, forcing the pleasantry out from under his sweeping brush moustache, the words packaged in a cheap plastic replica of seasonal cheer. As he leaned in, searching for her lips, Janine brought up her cheek like a knight's shield, then watched from the corner of her eye as he churned his doughy frame along the hallway and out into the grey, still wearing his slippers.
Janine waited. She had to be certain he hadn't left his keys, wallet or mask. The walls inched in. The tap in the bathroom dripped with a gathering pace. Muffled voices from next door rolled into the kitchen. On the TV a man in a cowboy hat cried out, fell, rolled, and disappeared into a canyon. She started to reach for the remote but knew that if she tried to force a change, Poirot, talking dogs, or a slightly older, less spritely McCulkin would be waiting.
She had missed all the really good things.
With a low snarl, she stood, and like an addict with their hands on a fix, snatched and clawed with defiant, leathery fingers, scooping up ambitiously full hands of Quality Street, After Eights, stacks of shortbread, and returned them to their aluminium and cardboard gut sacs, slamming on lids, piling them high. Posh chocolate or cheap, unbranded brandy liqueurs from his mother. It didn't matter. They all went in as the house of cards came crashing down. The cowboy shooter’s face now filled the screen, chewing on a toothpick, his expression now less triumphant, almost curious. He appeared to be watching Janine as she cried and laughed at the same time, dumping everything, seen, unseen, and endured into a deep, black bin bag.
Satisfied all the filth had been swallowed in the darkness, she prized the colourless UPVC front door open an inch, but before she knew what was happening, a hateful gale yanked her hand with unfathomable strength. Her ageing body left the ground and swung in a physics-defying arc. She somehow retained her footing and the bag of spoils as she landed, ran three steps, and crashed into and then through Mavis' front door, collapsing on top of the bag as it fell under her. Mavis leaped up from her armchair, recoiling, gasping in shock, and sent her drink and nibbles flying. Solomon the cat hissed and vanished into the kitchen, but like a movie cyborg, unwavering determination to see her mission through wrenched Janine back to her feet. A stiff arm, now cut and bleeding shot out like a piston, and held the bag up towards her neighbour of 41 years.
'Take it. Burn it if you have to. If I see it again, I will kill you.' She hissed in a voice devoid of tone. As if she were offering not sweets, but a nuclear device, Mavis hesitated, then accepted them, perhaps only because she saw something in Janine's eyes meant not for her, but which she knew it would be unwise to deny. Outside the window, Harold’s sulking shape stopped and cast a swollen shadow as he stared at his own open front door. Without a word, Mavis stepped back and watched Janine as she turned, jerked like some sort of dated puppet, and cut straight towards her husband, raising her arms, gathering pace.
Raspberry
Written by Ben Tallon
Diane fought with the aerial. The bend her nephew had put in it proved fatal, so she thumbed the radio off at the mains and shook her head. It was raining and the forecast said it would be wet until tomorrow morning. She watched next door's cat dart across the garden. It was bleak out there but it didn't matter. She was out later. It had been three years. No real reason. She just kept saying no to social invitations opting instead for low-budget documentaries about alien abductions. It had become quite the vice. She didn’t know how she felt about a chip up the nose.
The bath taps squealed and the cascading water stopped. She stared at the soapy bubbles, trying to predict which ones would pop and vanish next. She always missed them. Slowly, she grew aware of Steve Greasley shouting again. The thin walls gave her a running commentary of his life. This time it was about someone not putting a lid back on something properly, how he was sick of it. Wanker.
She chose not to wash her hair, so forty minutes later, dry, dressed, and more awake, she made an impromptu decision to walk down to the shop and buy a bottle of prosecco. Fuck it, if we're being posh... she thought, and tossed a punnet of finest raspberries into her basket with gleeful abandon.
Carrier bag in hand, her anticipation for the night out catching fire, Diane strode back and as she arrived back at the house she was shocked to see two police officers banging on next door. Hysterical howling from in there could be heard out in the street. Could this be the day Veronica Greasley buckled under the strain of her arsehole husband?
One of the officers planted his feet and drove his shoulder into the aged door. It offered little resistance and Diane flew down her hallway, into the kitchen, where she grabbed a short glass and pressed it to the wall. This had been almost ten years in the making. Diane hoped it had really gone off in there. A decade of passive aggression over trivial neighbourly matters, snide remarks on the drive, and a complete disregard for her night shift sleeping patterns might finally be ready to pay off with beautiful comeuppance. With her other hand, she tore at the raspberries, greedily palmed in a fistful while she soaked in the sounds of domestic bedlam. Things smashed. Veronica screamed and snarled. Steve's threats became cartoonishly violent, and far-fetched until they slowed and melted into childlike, muffled pleas for mercy. She messaged the group to tell the girls she might be slightly late. Who needed a radio?
Dear SANTA
Written by Rob C. Bartlett
Dear Santa,
My wife left me. Is there anyone else you could send?
Love,
Brian, 46, Carlisle.
MONKEY
Written by Ben Tallon
Jolene stands under the shower on its coldest setting until her nipples are like bullets and her teeth chatter. Back in the bedroom, behind the closed curtains, it takes three minutes for the heat to stifle her again and bits of carpet dirt cling to the sweat on her bare feet. She sighs as she tries to kick them off. Her hair begins to frizz before she can do anything with it, so she lets it be and goes downstairs.
In her t-shirt and shorts, she pours a glass of lemon water and puts on the TV. David Attenborough is talking and her damp palms cause the remote to slip from her grip before she can turn him off. She cannot change the channel in time to avoid some upsetting footage. A ginger monkey wanders around looking for trees, which have been destroyed. Thankfully, over on Comedy Central, Friends is on and she can’t help but laugh at Joey’s silly face, but the laugh is hollow and no matter how hard she tries to concentrate on the story, all she can think about is the monkey. Who cut down the trees? Why? How come it looked so sad?
Back in the bathroom, she brushes her teeth and longs for the days when all she had to worry about on the TV were boring news broadcasts, or her dad’s inexplicable love of Keeping Up Appearances. No wonder the teenagers are all depressed, staying indoors on their gaming consoles, when they’re showing that. What happened to the bright coloured birds doing silly dances for sex? I liked that kind of nature program, she thinks as she puts out the light and lays awake in the dark.
BURGER
Written by Ben Tallon
"I know she can be a dick, but this time, Karen is in the right if you ask m-"
"Ahhhh...bollocks!"
"What?! What's up?"
Martyn was at the sink, his shaking hand smeared with mayonnaise, ketchup and dead lettuce. The tap, at full blast, thrashed the mess off into the plughole. A tomato rolled off the kitchen unit. Bits of onion and mushroom stuck to the windows and walls.
"Fucking Hovis for a burger? LOOK AT IT!"
Karen looked at it. There was no way he was picking it up whole. Her attempt to break their mealtime routine had caved in around deep, wet, moon pothole finger dents. Mushroom grease made the bread translucent.
It was embarrassing.
Yet his contribution to anything around the home was betting on football upstairs. He'd been calling himself a ‘professional gambler’ since the bus company had laid him off.
"What have you been doing all day, anyway? Tell me you at least rang Sky?" He snarled.
The audacity of this caused Karen to twitch.
She looked at the stand full of kitchen knives, but left it, turned and stormed out of the kitchen. Marched upstairs. His laptop was open on the bed; the only source of light aside from the sickly yellow hue of the streetlight. She hovered over the device and shuddered, her face lit from beneath like a child reading by torchlight. Her grin lacked any of that lost innocence.
On it was a small football pitch graphic.
The live text updates said Liverpool were in the midst of a dangerous attack against Grimsby Town in a cup match. His account showed £346.56 balance. With two gleeful clicks, she bet it all on the minnows, snatched up her car keys and left the house to stay with her sister before all hell broke loose. Maybe this time she'd really leave him.
DETERGENT
Written by Ben Tallon
Drun-du-dun-drun-du-dun-drun…
Sally froze near the sink.
Drun-du-dun-drun-du-dun-drun…
The rumble of horse hooves blared out of the TV in the next room and trampled over her scrambling mind. It squealed like a smashed snail.
Drun-du-dun-drun-du-dun-drun…
One minute and twenty seconds vanished this way.
Finally, she remembered why she had shuffled into the kitchen. Fistfuls of Stef's faded t-shirts were rammed into the hole, stained t-shirts which sagged hauntingly along the midriff where his tits had made hammocks.
Drun-du-dun-drun-du-dun-drun…
The horses entered the home straight and her husband, shouted something indecipherable.
Faster now, she rammed in dresses and socks, bras and his limp, biodegrading underpants, now with more holes than fabric.
Her shaking hand slid off the neck of the laundry liquid and the cap came loose. It smacked the lino and a tide slimy detergent seeped under her socks.
She kicked it, caught the bottle sweet, screamed as it hit the wall under the breakfast bar. Stef barked that her racket had caused him to miss the commentary for a photo finish.
The decision on the winner would determine the mood of the rest of the evening.
She could catch up on Strictly in the week when he was out.
TOAST
Written by Rob C. Bartlett
For the fourth time this week, John buzzed in the postman for the apartment across the hall. He pressed his eyes against the peephole, nose pushed so hard against the door that he sniffed paint.
GAH! ANOTHER parcel for 206! John pondered for a second what they had ordered. It didn’t appear too inconspicuous. He fought an urge to dash outside and give the box a quick shake, hopefully revealing the identity of whatever naughty lay inside. The postman picked his nail and left.
John sighed and turned to stir his coffee. Rain bucketed against the windows. His sadness grew as another globule streaked down the murky glass. The CERB cheque still hadn’t cleared.
He smeared an extra thick layer of no-name chocolate spread on his toast.
Today would be a sad day.
PANTOMIME
Before I could scream at the animal, from the corner of my eye I saw not the hyperactive, overbred dog I was expecting, but the man on the pantomime posters in the city each Christmas, his pearly whites blinding me. Slightly balder, a little more wrinkled this year.
Written by Ben Tallon
It was the kind of Sunday when it all felt worse than it was. She had daddy issues. You could see it dripping from her jewellery display; death-mottled eyes assessing ways to end me when I told the wrong joke to the scenesters she ran with.
We hated everything about each other.
Yet here we were, bucking and riding on the queen size, Egyptian cotton caught under my leg as I catastrophically slipped out and struggled to get it back in.
Eventually I thumbed in the pale slacky.
She was violently bored, so I set off for the finale but the thing was limp and nerves had taken over. Not good. I could sense her gearing up to question why she could no longer feel me down there when Beyoncé, her cock-a-doodle galloped in and lapped once at my arse. Everything on me stiffened in shock and she clawed at the pillow with a yelp, caught off guard by my accidental resurgence. Before I could scream at the animal, from the corner of my eye I saw not the hyperactive, overbred dog I was expecting, but the man on the pantomime posters in the city each Christmas, his pearly whites blinding me. Slightly balder, a little more wrinkled this year.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out what I’d seen. When I opened them, he’d gone. It was the dog again, grinning, its head cocked to one side, hoping I’d come throw the saliva sodden, squeaky pig toy, face down by the door.
RADIO
Written by Rob C. Bartlett
“That was Queen with ‘I Want to Break Free’. Coming up, we’ll have some Lynard Skynard and the Bay City Rollers.”
The studio was quiet at this time of night and Phil was bored. Hardly anyone listened to the graveyard show save a few desperate insomniacs and the occasional taxi driver; even then, podcasts were all the rage now. He let out a long, frustrated sigh and took off his headphones.
What Phil didn’t know about radio wasn’t worth knowing. After 20 years in the industry, he’d witnessed all the tricks. Hell, he invented some of them. After a quick glance at the studio clock he flicked on the album version of Freebird and zipped up his faded leather jacket: seven minutes of guitar solo was ample time for a nicotine fix. Phil lowered his mic and slipped out; the neon red ‘On Air’ light flickered as the door nestled back into its tired hinges.
He whistled tunelessly as he walked down the corridor that led outside to the ‘smoke pit’, a weary old plastic shack which stood like a disused bus shelter. Marty Carlisle’s phone number was still scrawled on the inside wall, offering services that would make his mother blush. A fox rustled through the bins of the kebab shop across the road. Somehow, Phil thought as he sparked up, life had more to offer than this.
He took a drag and immediately felt calmer about things; Marty’s dealer had got this latest batch from the Netherlands, he had been told. He throat-farted a burp of middle-aged halitosis and cheap microwave dinners. Tranquility gently washed over him: he might play some Pink Floyd later. Phil took another drag and noticed there was a hole in his jeans.
Roach firmly extinguished and hidden in the sandbox, Phil made his way back indoors and detoured to the kitchen. The coffee machine’s warm glow greeted him like an old comrade, and he selected his usual ‘Hot Chocolate’. Great band, Phil chuckled, the old ones were the best. They always were.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his Dad’s old hip flask. A little nip to keep the foreigners at bay, his father used to say. Daddy wasn’t much use in the war. Phil poured the whiskey into the hot chocolate and took a long, deep gulp. Maybe the studio had caught fire, he hoped.
It hadn’t. It lay just as he left it and the disappointment that he would have to keep himself alert and entertained for the next two hours sank in. He set his hot chocolate down on the mixing desk, which whirred like an old laptop struggling to keep up with modern life. Time to play the news, he remembered. Maybe the strike was off. Maybe there was a gas shortage. Maybe they’d finally found that poor girl’s killer.
“And now the news,” Phil interjected as Freebird faded out. He wondered if the fox had found anything in the bins, for he knew a few stories about that place.
An hour passed and nothing had changed except that the empty hot chocolate mug had been refilled, this time with more whiskey than cocoa. Nobody had called in, nobody had emailed or Tweeted and, Phil thought, nobody was even aware of his futile existence. “All in all you’re just another brick in the wall” blurted through his headphones. Phil let out a sad fart and his stomach gurgled.
That was it! He thought. Why hadn’t it come to him sooner? A pulse of excitement surged through his veins and he hadn’t felt this alive since his wife left all those years ago. He grinned at the thought and wondered if he would get away with it.
In a flash, with Pink Floyd still banging on about teachers and kids, Phil stood up. He lowered the mic stand and moved the slider up. ON AIR. He was shaking. The anticipation was almost too much. The train was pulling out of the station: he had to be quick. Now or never, he exhaled. Deep breath. Damn! His belt buckle was stuck! A-ha! Got you, little bastard! Phil whipped his jeans and boxer shorts down to his ankles and swivelled on a six-pence. Face down and backside pointed to the mic, his arse cheeks rippled as he unleashed a long, howling gut honk across the town and surrounding areas. The desk shook from his arse tremor and a putrid, hot stank filled the studio. He put one hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter; don’t give the game away! He grasped around for the mic slider and, as the song began to fade, he composed himself.
“That was Pink Floyd with Another Brick In The Wall. Up next, we’ll have some Fleetwood Mac.”
Phil sat back and his kicked his boots in time with the music. Nobody called in, nobody emailed or Tweeted and nobody knew of his futile existence. But Phil was bored no more.
COFFEE SHOP
Written by Rob C. Bartlett
‘The usual, Si?’ She was everything to me. A curvaceous, sparkled beauty who knew how I felt with one glance. Joyful, sad or in desperate need of caffeine first thing. Her little finger stuck out like a dog’s leg whenever she poured the espresso into my medium Americano. I liked that.
I muttered my reply, too shy to make eye contact. And a lemon poppy-seed muffin too, to eat in, as always. My comfort blanket to the miserable reality which laid outside these walls, dressed in their tacky, mass-produced coffee shop art: I could paint that, if I really wanted to.
‘I’ll bring them over for you.’ My mouth dried as I squeaked gratitude. How did she reduce me to this pathetic, grotesque lump of a human? Why did I not have the same effect on her?
GAH! Too many questions. Sit down, stupid head! The millennials type-type-typed on their laptops and the gaggle of new mothers cackled vivaciously in the corner. I made my way to the right of the counter where my favourite spot sat free: I could glance out of the window and muse thoughts at my leisure but, more importantly, it gave me a perfect view to her. I could see every shuffle, every bend - every smile. I would always be there, beside her, where I was meant to be. Sometimes she even smiled back.
The hour passed with little intervention. Another man came in and flirted with her, but I forgave her. She didn’t look at him the way she looked at me: I was special. I took one last gulp (Christ, she could pour a coffee) and dusted the muffin crumbs from my lap. A dog barked at some crows outside, but they failed to stir. I knew what it felt like to be ignored.
I wrapped the scarf tightly around my neck and swung on my coat. Nobody looked at me again; they might do someday.
‘See you tomorrow?’ She didn’t have to ask; she knew. I moped the same words to her. Add in a joke, you idiot! GAH! What is wrong with you?
***
I slipped on ice and yelped excitedly as I rounded the corner too quickly. I was anxious to see her. Calm down, stupid head! You’ll ruin it, you always do.
NO! Today was different: I felt confident and the menace was in me. I swaggered indoors and the warmth hugged my cheeks, blush red from winter’s frosty cough. Every day for six weeks I’d been welcomed by her gaze but today, of all days, her eyes failed to meet mine. Damn! She must be in the back. Maybe she’s working on the rota: she liked to work on the rota on Thursdays.
I sat in my favourite spot, ate and drank my usual and waited. My heart pounded and sweat bled from me. Each type-type-type boomed and echoed through my eardrum like a screeching subway train. The cackles of laughter grated and made my skin itch. Where was she? I needed to see her TODAY.
But she never showed. I flung on my scarf and coat and got up to leave, angered, betrayed and alone. I made my way back past the counter and felt a raging urge to smash the displays her neat hand had fashioned.
And that’s when I heard it. ‘Such awful news, so tragic. She was such a lovely girl.’
Someone had already claimed her.
MONDEO
Written by Ben Tallon
Lucinda sat in the darkness of her parked Ford Mondeo and watched the drifts of rain swirl over and around the streetlight for a full two minutes until movement caught her eye.
Had it been a leaf?
The only other vehicle in the supermarket car park was an empty Audi. Several of the least mushy ones - still crisp and yellow - blew hesitantly along the ground with the carrier bags.
Not that. What then?
It happened again.
She put on her glasses and peered at the car. Saw some thigh. It bucked and rocked, like it was trying desperately to climb into the back seat. They were doing it.
She turned the key as quietly as she could. Wanted no part of their steam. To her utter despair, the lights came on. Full beam. Look at me! Look this way! They would think her a regular pervert. All she’d wanted to do was watch the happy families doing the weekly food shop, to try remember what it felt like to enjoy something so simple.
By now they’d all gone home but she liked the reliability and order of these car parks. She’d stayed on to watch the late shift staff get picked up by loved ones.
Before the couple had the chance to see her face, she stomped down on the accelerator and turned far too hard. The leather sole of her second-hand flats slid off the brake and the adrenaline turned her leg to stone.
In slow, inevitable motion, the Mondeo idly collided into the side door of the Audi. The window through which she’d seen the thigh cracked into a white spider’s web and the door buckled.
By the time the horny couple were barking and snarling through her windshield, safari style, the young man buckling up his jeans, Lucinda’s head was down, blaring the horn, sobbing hard through her nose about so much more than the crash.