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.