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First published in Great Britain in 2024 by
The Book Guild Ltd
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Harrison Road, Market Harborough,
Leicestershire. LE16 7UL
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Copyright © 2024 Richard Coiley
The right of Richard Coiley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.
ISBN 978 1835741 580
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
I’d like to dedicate this book to all the key workers who worked so hard and selflessly to keep us all safe during the covid pandemic. Thank you.
Contents
Waiting for Spring
Day Trip
Paranoia
The Thing
Cut Off
Hole
Gift
Touching
Escape
The Little Things
Bathroom
Dream
Awake
Waiting for Spring
Feels like it’s been raining here for weeks. I’ve heard we’re supposed to have a snowstorm starting sometime today – can’t remember where I heard it but can’t see it myself. Even without the snow, for the UK, it’ll probably still be the gloomiest winter on record; at least it should be with all the strikes going on. It’s just, it’s always so damn dark here all the time – I’m sick of it. Energy bills are shooting up too; I’ve tried so hard not to have the lights on, not to mention the bloody gas. I haven’t had the heating on for ages and I’m still not used to it. I hate the winter. My beautiful cottage used to feel magical and fresh, and I miss the smell of my flowers in my garden. I look out there now, out my poky kitchen window, and everything’s dead. I know this happens every year, it’s why Spring is my favourite. It’s just, this Winter, it feels far too dark, and far too cold – the worst I’ve ever felt it. For the first time since I’ve lived there, it feels, close; somehow, claustrophobic.
I’ve never in all my life known a time when I couldn’t afford to turn on a light bulb; I’m at the point now in my sorry existence, where I resent the very sound of that bitter-sweet, click. Although, when the light does come on, it’s such a joy, no matter how brief, because, for that moment, it’s like how things used to be not that long ago. But God knows how I’m gonna pay for it when the bill inevitably rolls in.
Since the Covid pandemic I’ve become used to existing one day at a time; I had to “Shield” because of my age and my Bronchitis, or I could have died. I have to wear a face mask every time I’m in a public place. All that and my gout… I just feel so broken, I could cry all day long.
That’s all a walk in the park compared to how things are now. A year ago, I was forced to leave work due to stress, but it was mainly my drinking. Long periods of time working from home staring at a screen, isolated from the world in month-long lockdowns will do that to you when all you can do is cough up mucus and watch the bills mount up; where’s the safety net these days?
I know the drinking’s out of control. But it helps when it’s all, overwhelming; it’s like I’m living minute by minute these days; like I’m always on the edge of some great precipice, always just one financial catastrophe away from oblivion.
I’m so tired of this cold, damp Hell I call life, and the endlessly thumping rain at the pokey windows of my crooked cottage. All I want is for it to brighten up; just a bit of blue sky is all I want; the warming scent of some gorgeous garden flowers and I’ll be able to make it to the Spring. I wish I could afford to buy some from the market, but the booze always comes first, even when I don’t want it to.
Day Trip
I managed to go out today – into town; well, what’s left of it. Lots of closures and charity shops – the occasional cafe, which is nice. But it’s nothing like it was over a decade ago. Even the more common high street brands have up-sticks and gone. They’re moving out to these big corporate hubs outside the towns. It costs a fiver if you want to get to my nearest one by bus: money better spent on booze and a little ‘foody’ treat if I can scrape enough together. Drink’s expensive when you’ve got a habit. But somehow, I manage.
Everything hurts, I don’t think I’m that old, I’m only fifty, but life’s been rough and I feel like I’m aching way more than I should at this age. It takes so much effort these days just to get out of bed, let alone out the front door. But the gout in my toes has subsided a bit; I was actually able to get my socks and boots on today without too much bother. Hopefully it’s getting better, if that’s a thing? But I desperately needed to get out the house. I needed fresh air badly, and I don’t live too far from the town centre. Ideally, I wanted to take the bus like I used to and save myself aggravating my toes again, but the service, like most things, has been hit with the government’s endless “austerity measures”. Efficiency savings, the government calls it; they always seem to be able to spend money on themselves and their donors, though. So, no thanks to them, walking into town was the only option. I wouldn’t be able to afford the bus anyway, to be fair. But would be nice to keep warm for just that little bit longer.
After procrastinating for an hour and some Vodka-flavoured ‘Dutch courage,’ I’ve forced myself out the front door. For some reason, I can never comfortably face meeting people I might know in town. I don’t know why; it just feels me with dread. Even the idea of it. It’s strange, but this thought actually makes me miss the Lockdowns. I wonder how many other people are the same as me?
It’s damn cold outside and the chill in that winter rain is cutting through me like that Butcher’s knife from that Hitchcock’s movie; it’s penetrating me to the core. My old coat, an olive green ‘Lighthouse raincoat’ knockoff, a decent one in its day, is no match for weather like this; I suspect the real thing would have had no problem. It started leaking about ten minutes into my painfully slow walk.
The rain is running down the slope of the pavement into the roadside gutters adding to a long flowing stream. I’d better move to the far right; some people enjoy splashing me occasionally as they drive past. Doesn’t happen every time, but you never know. I can feel the water leaking into my shoes; it’s icy cold. Hopefully it’ll start to warm up, or at the very least the coldness will help me forget my gout. Damn it, I can feel the tickle of a cough coming.
Not much phlegm in the tissue this time. Hopefully I can avoid a hacking cough in town now; I hate it when ‘they’ stare at you, not knowing whether to help or not. I think I hate people. Maybe that’s too strong a word, ‘hate’. But I’m certainly past needing them. I’d stay indoors forever if I could, with Toby curled up, warming my lap; I can’t stand leaving my home these days.
Before the pandemic, before bronchitis and the gout, when I worked for the NHS, it never really bothered me. It’s what I’d always wanted to do, to help people. Sure, it had good days and bad, or very bad days, no one ever said it would be easy and I wasn’t naive. But, I was way stronger then. I could take practically anything. I barely drank, and I had plenty of purpose and drive. Not like now. In reality it must have been affecting me on some level, slowly. Because it did start getting to me, and I did start to drink more to cope than laugh; we all did back then, just some, like me, drank more than others. Much more in my case. Funny how dependency creeps up on you like that. Not that I give much of a shit now – too old, I guess. I think I want the booze to kill me if I’m brutally honest with myself.
Things back then were always much worse at home than in A&E, certainly after I got married; I’ll never marry again as long as I live. Not that I think anyone would have me now anyway. Mental health issues caused by years in an abusive marriage and the Covid pandemic have taken their toll on me for sure. I’d never, in my twenties, have thought I’d become such a miserable recluse, never.
The town’s dark, rain’s slapping the pavement where it leaks through black gutters and over the edge of shop signs stained with faint green algae. Somehow the town’s rain-soaked bleakness mirrors my own unyielding depression. The decay here is plain to see for anyone with eyes in their head. More shops have closed and barely anyone is around. Sure, I can see some people still able to crack the occasional smile, young kids mainly. But my own decaying mental health, like an unwanted superpower, somehow illuminates the darkness others don’t want to see, or they’re simply oblivious to it. I know I’m being cynical. But I just can’t stop leaning towards this toxic way of thinking, no matter how hard I try. I used to be the opposite. My God was I the opposite – I used to dance more than I drank. I was a happy drunk back then too. Recently though, it’s made things worse – the drink. Guess I haven’t done it for fun for a really, really long time.
The wind’s picking up and it’s bringing with it some cold sleet rain. I can feel
Hobbling further up the high street, I can see more homeless people living in abandoned shop doorways than usual. A lot of them are lying still with their backs to me; could be dead for all I know. A strange thing to think when you walk past them. God, where’s my empathy gone? I used to be so much more compassionate than this, but there’s just too much suffering going on in the country right now, let alone the wider world. I just can’t get my head around it, or even face it. “More food banks than McDonalds”, that’s something I’ve heard. Don’t know if it’s true – sounds about right, though. All this suffering must have got in my head at some point; the hopelessness of it all. I want to help everyone, I always have, it’s why I chose nursing as a career; certainly wasn’t for the money… unless you actually enjoy decades-long real-terms pay cuts, that is?
I’ve been wandering aimlessly for a long time now, going in and out of various shops to stay out of the wind to get warm. An old man’s dog snarled and barked at me as I was heading into yet another charity shop; it was an Alsatian, I think. I reckon it would have tried to kill me if the bloke hadn’t been holding its thick chrome chain with both hands; his knuckles were as white as seashells, he was straining so hard. But the thing that scared me the most, was the thing I thought I saw near my feet. It was in my peripheral vision, but only for a moment. I couldn’t even tell for certain if anything was really there at all. The gout in my toes came back to haunt me a little after that incident and while I was hiding in the shop, I fell back into my all too familiar limp. That bloody dog – an unwelcome distraction at the best of times.
I’ve taken some time to calm down now. I was sure the thing I thought I’d seen around my ankles must have been a trick of the eyes, and in my panic, I think it was probably just the bottom of my shabby green coat flapping around.
I’ve stayed in the shop for a while now, casually glancing out the window now-and-again. I want to be certain that that man and his psychotic black dog have long gone. Then I’ll leave.
The wind and rain seemed to have stopped for a bit, so I’ve sat myself down on a wet wooden bench using my old Lidl shopping bag to stop my bum from getting wet. Damn it, that tickle in my throat again.
People trying not to notice me hacking my guts up. I should be used to it by now. That God-awful coughing fit’s stinging my chest, it was so bad. God damn, I could use a drink.
A sneaky hip flask of Vodka – never leave home without it. I’m getting the same looks as when I had my fit, but maybe with a hint more disapproval. At least the Vodka warms my chest up, rather than hurt it. Sod them all, and their muted disapproval.
It’s funny what you notice when you just sit. I always see things that would normally just pass me by. I get to notice other people’s problems, like taking a break from my own misery.
A couple of shop workers were smoking in the shadows of a small, rarely used jitty next to their shop. They don’t think I’ve noticed they’re arguing over a small bag of weed; I might be getting on, but I’d know the smell anywhere. They must think they’re right little gangsters. But the most unusual thing, is the small dying bird I’ve noticed next to my weathered boot. It’s tiny, just lying there soaked in a puddle, quietly opening and closing its beak. It hasn’t got any feathers by the looks of it. The poor little creature looks too young to see.
Scooping it up in my tatty woollen gloves I’m trying, futile I know, to keep it warm.
A policewoman’s marched quickly passed me, but she didn’t seem to notice the two clandestine shop workers sloping deeper within the cover of the old jitty’s dreary shadows. Lucky for them, I guess.
They’re quickly peering back out the gloom to see where she’s heading in such a hurry. I’m watching too; must be important. Her purposeful walk quickly matures into a small, gesture-like jog. She must be late for something.
Not too far ahead of the policewoman, something a little more interesting is happening. Just exiting the Next clothing store, an average looking kid, no more than fifteen, is being arrested for presumably, shoplifting, I don’t know – but he must have about four officers around him, including the policewoman.
Imagine if the police went after those at the top of societies food chain and arrested the ones who stole billions from the country during the pandemic and who partied while we died. “Without fear or favour”, my tired ass; the police will never touch them as long as I live. There’ll be no questionnaire or fifty pound fine for this kid, it’s straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds and all that bollocks. One rule for them and another for the rest of us. But my guess, is that nothing’s really changed. It was probably like this way back in the Dickensian days. Perhaps it’s always been this unfair and I, like a lot of people, were just foolish enough to think things were changing for the better? Not likely as it turns out, a blip, you might call it in the eons of unfairness. Corruption seems a bit more blatantly accepted these days, though.
The look on that kid’s face as he’s arrested; he’s so calm and still. I’ve unintentionally caught his eye. He’s just staring at me, not even blinking. Does he want me to look away or just notice his existence? I don’t feel like looking away, our gaze isn’t even broken when they force his arms behind his back; he resists a little, upsetting the cops and smirks at me as they put the cuffs on. I like this kid and smile back. He’s got a sense of humour, that’s for sure. He’d probably have continued staring if the biggest cop they have, hadn’t guided the kid’s head inside the rear seat of the waiting police car. The female officer has glanced over to see who he was smirking at, so probably too late, I look away.
I think the coast is clear. Strange, the young lad’s smiling at me from the back seat, although I could have sworn at first glance, he was facing the other way with officers either side of him. That smile, in that split second, it’s all wrong. It’s nothing like the kid that went into the car. God, I feel cold. It’s hard these days to make out things with my eyes, but as I turned away, I could have sworn I smelt something putrid and rotten. Like foul meat. I can’t locate the source, but I’ve noticed my little chick has died in the palm of my hand, poor thing. Now I think about it, I don’t think chicks are born this time of year, or maybe I’m wrong?
It’s starting to snow. The plastic bag under my bum hasn’t worked as well as I’d hoped. The cold water has managed to seep into my trousers; probably looks like I’ve pissed myself to be honest.
I’ve managed to limp into a nearby bookshop, W. H. Smith, to warm up, and got the obligatory concerned look from the teller as I entered; a friendly smile from me seems to have relaxed her, but I’m painfully aware my appearance isn’t conventional, and my personal hygiene may be a little, how should I put it? Relaxed these days. I get it. I really do, I remember looking at people like me when I was younger, and safer, and wondering what had happened to them. Well now I know, for me at least – life happened. Works out for some, but if no-one has your back and you just can’t get your shit together, life will eat you from the inside out. Still, she’s kind enough to dispose of the little bird for me. I thank her and decide to have a look around.
It’s so still and quiet at the back of the store compared to outside. So peaceful. The fancy stationery and notebooks are appealing. I love how they look and the thick, crisp texture of their cream-coloured paper. It would be amazing to write something interesting and profound that other people would love to read, something inspiring that would make lots of money, and would turn my luck around.
A heavy thud ruins a perfectly wonderful daydream. A book, I assume has fallen off a shelf behind me; that dull, heavy slap it made when it hit the ground broke the silent stillness.
