Short story published in Peninsula 2022: Durham University Creative Writing Anthology. Available for purchase here.
Lully, Lulla
Wallace put his hands in his pockets, then quickly took them out of his pockets, then put them back in again as it was very cold, actually, then took them back out as it suddenly struck him as stupid to have his hands in his pockets when the weather was this bad and the bridge this icy, very dangerous, and then Tobi from the corner shop walked by and waved hello and Wallace couldn’t help but imagine Tobi thinking, God, that Wallace fella’s weird, constantly putting his hands in his pockets then taking them out like that, just decide, man. Then Wallace had to stop himself from looking back over his shoulder to see whether Tobi had put his hands back in his pockets. He also had to stop himself from going back and apologising to Tobi to explain that no, he didn’t regularly put his hands in his pockets and take them out so rapidly like that.
But he knew Tobi to be a very understanding young man. Only recently, when he had had to get feminine hygiene products for Ruby, bless her heart, she’d been dealing with a terrible bout of tonsillitis so couldn’t get them herself, he had gone to the corner shop, the one by the football field, and he had explained to Tobi that he was needing to purchase some feminine hygiene products for Ruby, you know how it is, and they had engaged in harmless banter for a bit, softly chuckling, until another customer had come in – a woman – and they had quickly hushed themselves with awkward coughs. As he was about to leave, Tobi had smiled at him in a knowing way, in an acknowledging way, as if to say hey, that was a fun little conversation we had just then. And Wallace had smiled back before pushing the door open.
Now, of course, there was the risk that all of that had been for nothing. That Tobi now thought he had a weird mental thing about having his hands in his pockets or something. Maybe it made him go over their previous conversations in a different light. Did Tobi now think that the humorous, inoffensive jokes that they had shared about feminine hygiene products had not been in good humour at all, that Wallace was not only a has-a-thing-about-hands person but also a kinda-creepy-around-women person? It didn’t bear thinking about.
By the time Wallace finally plucked up the courage to discretely look over his shoulder Tobi had already turned a corner. He didn’t think of himself as very anxious, no, Wallace was the three C’s: careful, cautious, caring. He was a good dad, a good husband. He was the reason Ruby took her antibiotics every six hours as she should, he was the reason Robbie practiced his scales every day as he should. At some point, he had been imbued with this unfaltering internal clock, this wonderful machine that woke him up when he had to and made him go to bed when he had to and reminded him of his daily tasks and Ruby and Robbie’s daily tasks and, to be honest, all his friends’ and neighbours’ tasks. Sure, sometimes, when Glen from the office made fun of his mismatched socks by the water cooler, for example – which had been a deliberate fashion choice that he and Ruby had mulled over for ages that was then never repeated – he thought of himself as a loser, but only sometimes, because then, when everyone else had forgotten, Wallace had been the only one in the office to get Glen a birthday present, and what did he get him? A pair of mismatched socks. Glen loved it. That was the kind of guy Wallace was. He spun things around, he made things better, he bounced back from things. All thanks to the clock.
The clock was telling him that Sewanee, Simon Sewanee, from 12b, had mysteriously skipped his regular evening walk today, or perhaps he had decided to take another route, because if he hadn’t he would be running into him right about now.
“Wallace!” said Simon Sewanee from 12b.
He looked as though he had entered his appropriately-sized clothes early in the morning only to grow out of them throughout the day. It was evening now, so he was positively hulking in a tiny blue shirt and not weather appropriate tiny gym shorts. The wind had swept his grey hair into a cowlick.
Simon speed-walked towards him. Wallace measured the possibility of stopping for a chat as he approached. It was very cold. Surely Simon wanted to keep his temperature up. Ruby needed antibiotics before her inflated mutant tonsils blew her brains out.
Simon slowed his pace and reached for his earbuds.
“Can’t chat,” Wallace said as he quickly swerved out of his way. “Sorry.”
Simon gave him a grin that made it look like he was experiencing a sharp pain somewhere in his thin legs. He reaccelerated and made his way down towards the bridge.
Wallace wanted to kick himself. In the mouth. He would kick something more plausible if the road weren’t so damn icy, even in his ridiculously expensive winter boots he was slipping and sliding all over the place, and now he would have to slip and slide all the way up the deceptively treacherous incline he had the displeasure of calling his way back home, thinking about how miserable he is the whole way, how consistently shit, since what kind of forty-something balding man still gets nervous about a quick chat?
Despite himself, Wallace looked over his shoulder, maybe to see whether Simon had now stopped for a chat with Tobi, both of them now most likely discussing how weird Wallace and his hands were.
Instead, he saw Simon slip and hit his head, very hard, on the tough concrete balustrade.
-
What a lucky guy he was! No, no, not a lucky guy, a skilled – no, a flirta – actually, just a lucky guy, maybe, but what luck! He’d been trying for ages now and finally, after weeks and weeks and weeks of trying to get in Eliza’s pants – by god were those weeks toilsome, the long, elaborate messages – but finally the deed was done. Tobi was ecstatic. Positively beaming. She’d said it was good, too. He felt like a man, a sex mach – no, he just felt good, he felt good about himself. Very good.
Tobi wanted to follow up on this. This felt different. Eliza was cute, cuter than the usual suspects, and those usual suspects would all have to be blocked on their respective dating apps, obviously, because Eliza was the one, maybe. Not to jump the gun or anything, but she was really nice for a change, and her hair smelled so nice all the time, and she had so many different colourful scarves, and when she laughed it was an octave above her usual pitch. He’d have to tell dad to vacate the house for a subsequent date, sure to happen very soon, and maybe he could cook her something. Was he a good cook? No, but he was on the precipice now, the tipping point, one more solid date and they were in it for the long run, so tonight research would begin on the family computer. He wanted to try his hand at a hollandaise, that famously impressive-sounding mother of all sauces, but what did hollandaise go well with? Eggs Benedict? For a dinner date? It would have to be brunch. Maybe the hollandaise was a bad idea.
Someone shouted. Tobi stopped by the light and adjusted his beanie. Somewhere near the bridge. Another shout. Actually, on the bridge. Someone was on the bridge. And shouting. Really shouting. School kids, maybe? Tobi avoided them when he could, the little hooligans that hung out by the field and thumped their chests like gorillas whenever they managed to hit the shop windows with a ball. But this was a solitary scream, a man probably, shouting and shouting and shouting. For help. Someone needed help.
Tobi traced his steps back towards the bridge. Research would have to begin tomorrow.
-
If only he was the type of man to jump into action. No, Wallace was indecisiveness incarnate, the human equivalent of a house cat that claws and claws at the garden door with no intention of entering, a weasel of a man who would probably apologise if opportunity knocked him over the head. If only he knew first-aid. Of course he didn’t know first-aid. He’d always hated biology, Ms. Dixon having been a notoriously tough grader, and now, years later, Wallace still cringed at the mention of blood. And there was blood, god was there blood, his face so red, and Simon was breathing so heavily, his chest moving up and down like that.
Wallace took his coat off – but the coat was too thick, surely, didn’t they take their shirts off in the movies? – so Wallace took his sweater off, then he took his shirt off, and then he was left half nude in the unbelievable cold as he tried his best to put pressure on the wound. Why had no one heard him? He’d shouted so many times. He didn’t know what to do, he so wished he knew what to do, and life was less than easy sometimes, it really was, those moments when the clock failed, and the clock really had failed this time, and the red stain was poking through the shirt now, how, how was there so much of it?
His heart was going. He needed to do his breathing exercises. He needed time to rub his hands against his temples and think about Robbie, his therapist had told him so, baby Robbie when he’d just been born, his sweet boy, bless his heart, but he also had to keep pressure on the head and so the hands stayed where they were, slightly stained red now, as Wallace closed his eyes and counted to ten.
-
A murder.
Actually, no, the man with the thin ugly torso was Wallace, that harmless old fart, so Tobi picked up pace, carefully, sticking to one side of the bridge, the strong wind blowing into his coat. The guy on the ground looked worse for wear, and there was blood, but Tobi needed to get closer, and was that Simon? This would make a story, this would get Eliza excited, he’d tell her all about how he saved Simon Sewanee, the guy from 12b that does the evening walks, and then he’d get interviewed by a cute blonde news anchor in a jet-black pantsuit and wouldn’t that make her jealous?
But Simon was dead. How could Wallace not see that? He was breathing, sure, but his head, the wound. Unresponsive. Tobi knelt down. He’d never seen someone die before. Mom had died in hospital.
He felt like crying, suddenly. Wallace was crying. His eyes closed, shaking from the cold, counting to ten under his breath and starting over and over again, faster each time.
A week ago, Tobi had gone to a carol service with Eliza. He wasn’t religious. But the choir had sung one he hadn’t heard before, and he’d been moved to tears then, and then he’d shared his first kiss with her in the cold outside, dawdling afterwards, neither of them wanting to go back home.
He was rough on the words but the melody was there, so he started singing, softly, then just a little louder. He reached for Wallace.
Hand in hand, their breathing slowed, then Simon’s chest stopped moving. But Tobi kept singing, over and over, until everything stood still in the cold dark night.