The World Impossibly Coming Together
[The man was sitting on a bench...]The man was sitting on a bench, wrapped up in a large furry coat, kicking at the dead leaves with the pointed toe of his Chelsea boot. Every so often, he would glance up at the playground, but never for more than a second, and while the usually anxious Stoke Newington mothers gave him a wide berth people had stopped paying attention to him relatively quickly.
Howard rubbed his hands together and thought about tomorrow’s meeting. He could still picture his briefcase lying on the kitchen counter, full of important papers that he hadn’t read through properly. Had he been a stronger man he would have been back at home right now, trawling through them and making sure he was up-to-date with everything that was happening in his department, but one look at Charlie’s pleading face and he’d melted like warm Nutella.
That was an odd simile, he thought. He wondered where he’d picked that up.
Charlie was grinning ecstatically as he threw himself over the climbing frames, his scarf whipping out behind him and his coat beginning to slip from his shoulders. He was a tiny whirlwind wrapped in a woolly hat; brimming with life and vivacity and Advent Calendar chocolate. Howard watched his son and felt a warmth settle over the middle part of his chest.
Over on the other side of the playground, the strange man was staring into space. He was sitting hunched over, with his hands resting firmly up in lap. There was a faint residue of something bright and extraordinary about him, something that had long since been long lost in the depths of his tired eyes. With his pale skin and sharp face, he looked like a crumpled piece of paper.
Though there was something about him…
“Daddy?”
Howard started, and looked down to see Charlie gazing up at him.
“Everything ok, love?”
“I’m hungry. I want to go home now.”
Howard nodded. “Alright, then. Shoulder ride?”
“Yeah!”
Charlie raised his arms up, and Howard stooped to scoop the little boy up in his arms and over onto his shoulders, where he settled the familiar weight down.
“You’ll be getting a bit big for this soon, Mingle.”
As he walked through the playground gates, his son chattering away about something funny that had happened at school, he noticed that the man on the bench had gone.
That night Howard dreamt that he was standing on a beach looking out at the grey sea and the grey sky and no matter where he looked or where he turned he couldn’t see anything else, only an endless dark horizon.
***
He saw the man again the following day. It was difficult to miss him; with his overblown hair and deflated posture he looked like a rock star long past his prime, although he couldn’t have been that old. He was sitting on a bench outside the office, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the pigeons as Howard made his way through the glass revolving doors. When Howard glanced over, the man offered a sharp smile, and once again Howard was struck by that same sense of recognition he had felt in the park. For a split second a name danced on the tip of his tongue, stuck between his teeth, only to be swallowed down again as he quickly turned away.
The encounter was rapidly forgotten. The meeting was weighing too heavily on his mind to be ousted by a funny bloke with a ridiculous hairdo. It was only later, when he was standing in the foyer with his colleagues, that Howard caught a black flash of movement through the paneled windows that suddenly and inexplicably sent his stomach plummeting to the floor. A moment passed where he didn’t know where he was, or even who he was. But then Roger patted him on the back, and said, “Ready for lunch, Moon?” and the moment was gone.
But, still, he felt on edge. It was as if he’d suddenly realised that the floor beneath his feet was actually a very fine piece of wire, and he was liable to fall at any second.
He took a taxi home that night. In his anxious mind, the darkness seemed to be closing in on him. It was a relief when he finally stepped through his own front door, the hallway lights settling his shattered mind.
Gemma had already gone to bed, but there was a bowl of leftover pasta bake in the fridge for him. Howard peered over the slowly drying tomato stains on the dining table, and tried to picture the scene. Charlie babbling so animatedly that he didn’t even notice that more food was flying off his fork than was going into his mouth. Gemma giggling and wiping her son’s chin. Her trying in vain to get him to eat some broccoli. The image calmed him. Here was normality. Here, this kitchen, his wife and their child - this was ordinariness, plain and simple and beautiful.
He went upstairs, and poked his head around the second bedroom door. Charlie was sleeping soundly, curled up under his duvet and clutching tightly onto a menagerie of stuffed animals. Howard watched the slow rise and fall of the child’s chest and then reached out to gently stroke his forehead.
“Night, Mingle,” he whispered.
The curtains were open slightly, letting in a tiny sliver of artificial yellow light from the streetlights outside. Treading softly so as to avoid the creaking floorboards, Howard made his way over to the window to close them properly. But through the fragment of exposed glass, a flicker of something made him stop and look down onto the road below. His heart leapt. There, below him, was the strange man from earlier, spotlighted in an amber lamppost glow across the road from Howard’s front door.
The man turned to look up at the window, and their eyes met.
With a gasp, Howard leapt away from the curtains, and staggered out of Charlie’s room, closing the door behind him. He stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, staring at the door, his heart loudly thudding inside his hollow chest. Slowly, slowly, he stepped over to the front door, and pulled it open.
The man was still standing underneath the streetlight, casting a slim silhouette against the stark brightness. He slowly straightened up.
“Howard?” he called.
Howard took a few tentative steps forward. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Y’know what, Howard, I’m fed up with all of this,” the man sighed. Howard was now close enough to see the shadows cast by his eyelashes on his cheek.
“If you don’t get away from my house this instant, sir, I’m calling the police.”
“Alright, alright! Cool your boots.” The stranger huffed, and a cloud of white steam erupted from between his lips. “It’s me. It’s Vince.”
Howard froze. He felt like he’d known that, somehow; like it was suddenly inconceivable to him that this man, who he’d never met before, would have been called anything else. Of course he was called Vince.
“Howard?” Vince’s face had softened, and in the light he looked almost hopeful. “Howard,” he said gently, “It’s me.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Howard shook his head.
“What do you want?”
Vince’s shoulders sagged, and then the cold, leaden look returned to his eyes almost as quickly as it had gone. “You can’t do this. You can’t keep stringing me along.”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea-”
“Do you remember that record?” Vince interrupted, his top lip curled into a kind of snarl. “That really rare expensive record you bought, and you were so pleased with it, and then I broke it because that punk gang told me to? You must remember that, coz I do; I remember the look on your face. You were so angry with me, weren’t you, Howard? What a little shit, breaking something that you loved so much, like it meant nothing. Or how about your birthday when I tricked you into having that party just so I could bring my mates over? Your thirtieth birthday; how could I have done that, eh? Or how about when Naboo fired you and I didn’t notice coz he gave me that cape? You’ve got to remember those things, right? Remember all the times I was a total ballbag, all those times I treated you like rubbish? You’ve got to remember something. I don’t care if all you remember is the bad stuff, I don’t care if you’re angry with me, I don’t care if you want to leave forever or never see me again, coz it’s fucking preferable to you dying, alright? We’ve got to get back, and I’m not leaving without you.”
Silence fell again. Throughout this speech Vince’s voice had risen to a high-pitched shout, but now he seemed incapable of speaking through his tattered and jagged breath.
“My son is asleep inside that house,” said Howard quietly. “As is my wife. I would much prefer it if neither of them woke up, so again, I’d like to ask you to leave before I am forced to call the police.”
Vince gritted his teeth and groaned, clutching at his head with his fingers. “No, no, no. You haven’t got a son, Howard; you haven’t got a wife. They’re not real!”
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t real. I know Naboo said I shouldn’t say, but I don’t care anymore ‘coz this is doing my head in. None of this is real. You think it is but it isn’t.” Vince’s eyes were wild as he scrambled for any appropriate words. “When did you get married?”
“What?”
“When did you get married, Howard? What was the date?”
Howard thought for a second, but his mind had gone blank. “I don’t…”
“What was she wearing? Who was your best man?”
Howard tried to picture his wedding day in his mind. But, try as he might, as soon as he thought he remembered something it dissolved away into nothingness.
Vince was slowly nodding. “You don’t know, do you? That’s because it never happened.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the words sounded unsteady even to his own ears. There was something else, too; something else niggling away at the back of his mind. “You said…you said that this was preferable to me dying. What did you mean?”
Vince raised his head, and his eyes burned.
“You died, Howard.”
Howard rubbed his hands together and thought about tomorrow’s meeting. He could still picture his briefcase lying on the kitchen counter, full of important papers that he hadn’t read through properly. Had he been a stronger man he would have been back at home right now, trawling through them and making sure he was up-to-date with everything that was happening in his department, but one look at Charlie’s pleading face and he’d melted like warm Nutella.
That was an odd simile, he thought. He wondered where he’d picked that up.
Charlie was grinning ecstatically as he threw himself over the climbing frames, his scarf whipping out behind him and his coat beginning to slip from his shoulders. He was a tiny whirlwind wrapped in a woolly hat; brimming with life and vivacity and Advent Calendar chocolate. Howard watched his son and felt a warmth settle over the middle part of his chest.
Over on the other side of the playground, the strange man was staring into space. He was sitting hunched over, with his hands resting firmly up in lap. There was a faint residue of something bright and extraordinary about him, something that had long since been long lost in the depths of his tired eyes. With his pale skin and sharp face, he looked like a crumpled piece of paper.
Though there was something about him…
“Daddy?”
Howard started, and looked down to see Charlie gazing up at him.
“Everything ok, love?”
“I’m hungry. I want to go home now.”
Howard nodded. “Alright, then. Shoulder ride?”
“Yeah!”
Charlie raised his arms up, and Howard stooped to scoop the little boy up in his arms and over onto his shoulders, where he settled the familiar weight down.
“You’ll be getting a bit big for this soon, Mingle.”
As he walked through the playground gates, his son chattering away about something funny that had happened at school, he noticed that the man on the bench had gone.
That night Howard dreamt that he was standing on a beach looking out at the grey sea and the grey sky and no matter where he looked or where he turned he couldn’t see anything else, only an endless dark horizon.
***
He saw the man again the following day. It was difficult to miss him; with his overblown hair and deflated posture he looked like a rock star long past his prime, although he couldn’t have been that old. He was sitting on a bench outside the office, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the pigeons as Howard made his way through the glass revolving doors. When Howard glanced over, the man offered a sharp smile, and once again Howard was struck by that same sense of recognition he had felt in the park. For a split second a name danced on the tip of his tongue, stuck between his teeth, only to be swallowed down again as he quickly turned away.
The encounter was rapidly forgotten. The meeting was weighing too heavily on his mind to be ousted by a funny bloke with a ridiculous hairdo. It was only later, when he was standing in the foyer with his colleagues, that Howard caught a black flash of movement through the paneled windows that suddenly and inexplicably sent his stomach plummeting to the floor. A moment passed where he didn’t know where he was, or even who he was. But then Roger patted him on the back, and said, “Ready for lunch, Moon?” and the moment was gone.
But, still, he felt on edge. It was as if he’d suddenly realised that the floor beneath his feet was actually a very fine piece of wire, and he was liable to fall at any second.
He took a taxi home that night. In his anxious mind, the darkness seemed to be closing in on him. It was a relief when he finally stepped through his own front door, the hallway lights settling his shattered mind.
Gemma had already gone to bed, but there was a bowl of leftover pasta bake in the fridge for him. Howard peered over the slowly drying tomato stains on the dining table, and tried to picture the scene. Charlie babbling so animatedly that he didn’t even notice that more food was flying off his fork than was going into his mouth. Gemma giggling and wiping her son’s chin. Her trying in vain to get him to eat some broccoli. The image calmed him. Here was normality. Here, this kitchen, his wife and their child - this was ordinariness, plain and simple and beautiful.
He went upstairs, and poked his head around the second bedroom door. Charlie was sleeping soundly, curled up under his duvet and clutching tightly onto a menagerie of stuffed animals. Howard watched the slow rise and fall of the child’s chest and then reached out to gently stroke his forehead.
“Night, Mingle,” he whispered.
The curtains were open slightly, letting in a tiny sliver of artificial yellow light from the streetlights outside. Treading softly so as to avoid the creaking floorboards, Howard made his way over to the window to close them properly. But through the fragment of exposed glass, a flicker of something made him stop and look down onto the road below. His heart leapt. There, below him, was the strange man from earlier, spotlighted in an amber lamppost glow across the road from Howard’s front door.
The man turned to look up at the window, and their eyes met.
With a gasp, Howard leapt away from the curtains, and staggered out of Charlie’s room, closing the door behind him. He stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, staring at the door, his heart loudly thudding inside his hollow chest. Slowly, slowly, he stepped over to the front door, and pulled it open.
The man was still standing underneath the streetlight, casting a slim silhouette against the stark brightness. He slowly straightened up.
“Howard?” he called.
Howard took a few tentative steps forward. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Y’know what, Howard, I’m fed up with all of this,” the man sighed. Howard was now close enough to see the shadows cast by his eyelashes on his cheek.
“If you don’t get away from my house this instant, sir, I’m calling the police.”
“Alright, alright! Cool your boots.” The stranger huffed, and a cloud of white steam erupted from between his lips. “It’s me. It’s Vince.”
Howard froze. He felt like he’d known that, somehow; like it was suddenly inconceivable to him that this man, who he’d never met before, would have been called anything else. Of course he was called Vince.
“Howard?” Vince’s face had softened, and in the light he looked almost hopeful. “Howard,” he said gently, “It’s me.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Howard shook his head.
“What do you want?”
Vince’s shoulders sagged, and then the cold, leaden look returned to his eyes almost as quickly as it had gone. “You can’t do this. You can’t keep stringing me along.”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea-”
“Do you remember that record?” Vince interrupted, his top lip curled into a kind of snarl. “That really rare expensive record you bought, and you were so pleased with it, and then I broke it because that punk gang told me to? You must remember that, coz I do; I remember the look on your face. You were so angry with me, weren’t you, Howard? What a little shit, breaking something that you loved so much, like it meant nothing. Or how about your birthday when I tricked you into having that party just so I could bring my mates over? Your thirtieth birthday; how could I have done that, eh? Or how about when Naboo fired you and I didn’t notice coz he gave me that cape? You’ve got to remember those things, right? Remember all the times I was a total ballbag, all those times I treated you like rubbish? You’ve got to remember something. I don’t care if all you remember is the bad stuff, I don’t care if you’re angry with me, I don’t care if you want to leave forever or never see me again, coz it’s fucking preferable to you dying, alright? We’ve got to get back, and I’m not leaving without you.”
Silence fell again. Throughout this speech Vince’s voice had risen to a high-pitched shout, but now he seemed incapable of speaking through his tattered and jagged breath.
“My son is asleep inside that house,” said Howard quietly. “As is my wife. I would much prefer it if neither of them woke up, so again, I’d like to ask you to leave before I am forced to call the police.”
Vince gritted his teeth and groaned, clutching at his head with his fingers. “No, no, no. You haven’t got a son, Howard; you haven’t got a wife. They’re not real!”
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t real. I know Naboo said I shouldn’t say, but I don’t care anymore ‘coz this is doing my head in. None of this is real. You think it is but it isn’t.” Vince’s eyes were wild as he scrambled for any appropriate words. “When did you get married?”
“What?”
“When did you get married, Howard? What was the date?”
Howard thought for a second, but his mind had gone blank. “I don’t…”
“What was she wearing? Who was your best man?”
Howard tried to picture his wedding day in his mind. But, try as he might, as soon as he thought he remembered something it dissolved away into nothingness.
Vince was slowly nodding. “You don’t know, do you? That’s because it never happened.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the words sounded unsteady even to his own ears. There was something else, too; something else niggling away at the back of his mind. “You said…you said that this was preferable to me dying. What did you mean?”
Vince raised his head, and his eyes burned.
“You died, Howard.”