Thursday 22 March 2012

4. Stanley falls


A little before a quarter to eight. Still dark at home, though the hooves in the street never cease their parade and the gas still purrs in the glass. And here - bright, hot, and the incessant screech from the trees.

Slowly, with my eyes on the far bank, I descend the steps, today as every day, to feel the cool of the river on my toes. It is necessary.
Necessary to be seen, necessary to cool my feet.

Stand a while and watch the farther shore.
See and be seen.
Fishermen. Fish.
The sound of the water, though the river is a roar like the angel of judgement. I remember – the gentle hissing in the ears, soft at first and delicate, like a distant choir of boys. Then a low murmur that grows into a growl, a growl from the crypt behind a door which will not stay closed. That’s when you first feel it in the pit of your belly. The scratch.
And then the chorister screams and you are lost in the maelstrom.

The tomb is not silent but filled with the roar of all the dead. Those dead, my dead. Yes I pity them. Have pity.

I adjust my hat, turn and retrace my path to the house.



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