Tyrone pops by

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man standing outside my bedroom window. You'd think that would be a pretty big problem. Actually, the bigger problem with that is the fact that I live on the fifth floor. After a split-second of heart surge, I realize who it is. But it’s impossible.
Swallowing a rising nausea, I pad over to the window. It’s a beautiful window, reaching down to the ground and opening onto a little balcony with two or three pansy-filled terracotta pots. I wrench the door open, and slosh the remnants of my Jack and coke into the man’s face.
‘Bastard!’ I screech, to the discomfiture of a nearby pigeon.
He smiles his one-corner-of mouth smile, edges past me into my bedroom, and begins running his tongue as far round his face as he can to catch the JD.
‘The coke ruins it, y’know,’ says Tyrone. ‘Any chance you could fix me a real one?’
This time I throw the glass. Tyrone ducks nonchalantly and walks out into the kitchen, exaggeratedly tiptoeing past the sparkling shards. I follow, and launch myself at him, beating his back with my fists as he pours himself a drink. He turns, and snorts at me.
‘Jeez,’ he says, in an aggrieved tone. ‘I thought you mighta been happy to see me.’
Which I am. As well as being bloody furious.
I pick up the letter on the worktop. ‘Just what was this supposed to mean? I thought you were dead.’
‘I thought I would be, too,’ Tyrone says as he rummages in the fridge. ‘Cool. Lasagne.’ He switches on the oven, and takes a large draught of his drink.
‘So..?’
‘So I changed my mind.’ He drums his fingers on the worktop, and glowers impatiently at the oven.
‘Well. I’m glad.’ My voice is quiet, but I can tell from the twitch of his eyebrow that he hears, and is touched.
I pick up the paper, his suicide note, wanting to tear it up. Something stops me.
‘Hang on,’ I say, and Tyrone’s shoulders tighten. ‘The policeman. He brought me this.’
‘Great detective work,’ muttered Tyrone dryly. ‘That’s why I put your goddam address on it.’
‘He said there was a body.’ I’m backing away, that old sick fear rising up in me again.
‘Of course there was a body,’ Tyrone said smoothly. ‘It wouldn’t be much of a suicide without a body, would it?’
‘Who?’ I pick up a cushion and hold it to my chest, as if for protection. ‘Who was it? Bloody hell, Tyrone, what did you do?’
‘I believe his name was Jim. Homeless guy. Real sad.’ Tyrone stoops to place the lasagne on the oven shelf, and walks towards me. ‘Why must we keep having this same goddam conversation?’
‘Because people keep dying. Tyrone, what did you do?’
‘I decided on a fresh start. No more Tyrone – his life sucks. He’s over.’ He strokes my neck with the side of his index finger. ‘Sweetheart, you’re not gonna rat me out. Are you?’
I try to remember how to breathe. The greyness of his eyes seems to be forcing the air from my body. Eventually I shake my head no, and Tyrone nods. He lowers his hand.
‘Extra cheese on your lasagne?’ I ask.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

LITERARY AGENTS IN 'PAPERCLIP' SHOCKER

Pernickety Hat can exclusively reveal a sinister conspiracy at the heart of the writing industry. Our source, a 30-something writer who not only demanded to be named but also asked us to include samples of her writing in this story in brazen attempt to gain publicity, believes that she has discovered just why it is so difficult for aspiring writers to get into print.

'It's the agents,' explains our source. 'They don't actually read anything you send them.'

She claims to have sent a synopsis and sample chapters to a number of agents, only to receive rejections within a matter of days.

'I thought, at first, that they had simply discerned my writing to be the pile of tosh I secretly fear it to be,' she continues. 'But then it clicked. The same thing kept happening, and I realised then that something sinister was going on. Each time, my manuscript looked untouched - except for the fact that the agency kept the paperclip.'

Pernickety Hat has investigated these claims, and is now in a position to reveal the truth. The agency industry is nothing more than an elaborate scam, aimed at depriving needy writers of paperclips. We urge all writers to rebel against this behaviour, and to staple their manuscripts without further delay. Together, we can make a difference and bring an end to this evil paperclip-snatching conspiracy.

With apologies to T. S. Eliot...

My current essay is turning into something of an obsession (not that I'm actually writing it or anything; that would be a step too far). There's great displacement to be had in aping J. Alfred Prufrock...

Let us go then, you and I,
While essay plans flutter before eyes
Like a patient bouncing on padded walls.
Oh, do not stop to ask ‘which question?’
Both A and B cause indigestion.

In the forum students come and go
Panicking about Okigbo.

The lowering fog that curls round my brain
Obliterates knowledge;
And do I dare to no longer care
And submit a pile of garbage?
To make it by my teeth’s skin?
(Tutors will hoot, ‘how she is dim!’)
It is impossible to write what I mean!

There will be time, there will be time
To analyze all the obscure rhyme
then feast on chocs and fizzy wine
Once the final ‘send’ has been confronted.

In the forum students feel wrecked
Musing on the ways of Brecht.

It grows late…it grows late…
And shall I miss the cut-off date?
I have seen essays returned,
Seen them marked, and smiled at some,
But this one will not smile for me.
I shall swim in seas of ignorance,
That’s by the by,
Til a ‘bad fail’ wake me, and I cry.

Crossroads

Following a prompt from Writers' Island (see sidebar):

Usually the SatNav woman had plenty to say for herself, but not today.
‘You have missed your destination,’ she conceded, a little sheepishly.
‘I bloody know that,’ Kathryn remonstrated. ‘But where the bloody hell am I?’
SatNav woman merely repeated her previous remark.
Kathryn, feeling hot and itchy about the armpits, pulled into a side road and stopped. First she texted Mark (‘wrong turn. Be bit late.’), and then attempted to re-establish communication with SatNav woman. The machine bleeped dutifully as Kathryn pressed buttons, but then suffered one of its habitual blackouts.
‘Come onnnn,’ hissed Kathryn, giving the machine a slap.
It had been sweet of Mark to buy it for her, but it was so like him to have got it from some dodgy geezer down the pub instead of a proper shop. So long as it was cheap, and it worked…sometimes. There was no hope today, though. Kathryn smoothed her hair, preparing to try and find her own way, when her phone chirped. Mark. ‘Wrong turn! Story of ur life. B quick. Dinner ready.’
The itchy-armpit sensation returned. Their first anniversary - of all the days to get lost! After she had spent the afternoon in the alien serenity of the beauty parlour, being made up and waxed and tweezed. She surged back out into the road, trying to remember which direction she had come from, but it was useless. In the looming dusk, all the hedges and fields looked the same. Kathryn trailed forlornly along until she reached a crossroads she seemed to remember. She slowed, and for the first time noticed the car behind her, its headlights off. In a sort of inspired desperation, she decided to ask for directions. She signalled to pull in, at the same time making beckoning motions in the rear-view mirror. The other car lumbered to a halt behind her. Kathryn got out, and tottered to its window on her unaccustomed high heels. A cool breeze welled, fingering her legs in their sheer stockings.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Kathryn to the window, as the driver whirred it down. ‘I’m terribly lost, and my sat nav has broken down. Could you tell me the best way to Crawsdale?’
‘Crawsdale! You are lost!’ The man in the second car laughed, his eyes twinkling as his eyes assessed what portion of Kathryn was visible. He waited a few seconds before continuing. ‘It’s pretty simple, though. Right at the crossroads, straight on ‘til the third roundabout, then left at the lights.’
‘Thank you,’ Kathryn smiled, repeating the directions like a mantra inside her head but already secretly certain that she was remembering left when he said right, and that there would only ever be two roundabouts.
‘No probs, love. Enjoy your evening. Looks like you’ve got plans.’ The man smiled thinly, and his window whirred back up.
Kathryn got back into her car, and made the right turn. Within a few hundred yards, the road narrowed into a rutted path, pitted with stones and with nettles inching over its surface. This couldn’t be right. The man must have said left. The road, or rather path, was too narrow to turn around in. Images of spoiled dinners parading before her eyes, Kathryn threw the car into reverse and sped backwards. Glancing into her mirror, she was startled by a sudden glare of headlights behind her. She stopped, waiting for the other car to go back as there was no room for overtaking. It didn’t move. Kathryn squinted hard at her mirror. Impossibly, it was the car from the crossroads.
The driver eased out of the door, and began a slow, determined tramp to Kathryn’s door. Transfixed, she watched his approach in the mirror. He was still wearing the same thin smile, but now his hand was lowering a zipper instead of a window. Kathryn, feeling sick and ridiculous in her finery, suddenly came to life and grappled with her phone. Her hands shook and refused to obey her. She tried to dial 999, but fumbled and only managed to re-open her text to Mark.
Wrong turn, the phone flashed silently, as the man calmly reached out to open the door. Wrong turn. Wrong turn.

Stuck!

Day melts into night,
but the page stays unsullied:
the words won't bed down.

From my office window...

HGV pauses,
bows to Mini: traffic light
choreography.

From my window...

Unseasonal fruit
sagging on winter-nude branch
of Asda-bag tree.