Buzz or Howl: Short Stories

Two Days Later

Mr. Kent knew it was over even as he scribbled down all that he needed to. His chest turned in a way that was unfamiliar and yet, somehow known. He carried on writing.

     His words were illuminated only by the embers of a cigarette he had just put out in an empty mug, and the flickering light of a tea candle sat perilously on a pile of books. Wax was leaking from it onto the sneering face of Alex on the cover of A Clockwork Orange, granting him an ectoplasmic goatee. The downstairs lights had blown about a week ago, but Mr. Kent was not a practical man in any conventional sense. He had painted the south facing wall of the living room bright yellow to reflect more light. It didn't.

     "What are you doing?" came a voice from behind him.

     Turning round he saw, lit up insufficiently by the tiny flame, Rosalyn. She was frowning, or at least the parts of her face he could see were. "Rosalyn! Yes, hi. Sorry, did I wake you?" He buzzed around his words, never settling on one syllable for too long. Rosalyn frowned but he couldn't see it.

     "Yes, you woke me. It's. . . ." She tried to check the clock on the wall, but its face was masked by the evening, "It's late. That's what it is. What on Earth are you doing?"

     "Doing?"

     "Yes. Doing. What are you doing?" She repeated.

     Mr. Kent glanced down at the piece of paper he had been writing on then quickly looked back up. He smiled as naturally as he could manage. "Nothing, nothing. Just go back to sleep, my love."

     Rosalyn had noticed him look at the paper on the table. She was peering around him at it.

     "What's that?"

     "What's what?" Mr. Kent responded, leaning over to the side slightly in an attempt to hide it.

     "Have you been smoking again?" she moaned, reaching for the cup on the table, "and using my Beano mug as an ashtray? Seriously? I can't believe tha. . . ."

     "Rosalyn!" Mr Kent put his hand over her mouth rather more forcefully than he had intended. "I'm sorry."

     She scowled at him from behind her new palm-shaped gag. Mr. Kent slowly moved it aside revealing her tiny sphincter of a mouth. He bowed his head by way of an apology. If she accepted it, she made no effort to convey the fact.

     "Roz, I need to pop out." Her scowl added a touch of confusion to its already potent brew.

     "Go out? Now?" Mr. Kent nodded.

     "There's just something that needs to be done." The scowl cracked slightly. "What could you possibly need to do out there at this time of night?"

     "It's. . . . Uh. . . . It's to do with the club."

     Roz rolled her eyes, "I won't wait up then."

     Mr. Kent smiled at her, "I wouldn't bother, dear."

     "Ok. Don't smoke too much," she said. "Oh, and be careful. You're not as young as you used to be."

     "Don't worry," Mr. Kent said. "Everything is gonna be fine." Rosalyn's expression finally softened. She rubbed her mouth, though, for emphasis. Mr. Kent kissed her gently on the forehead. "Good night, poppet." He moved towards the front door, picking up the paper he'd been writing on as he did so. She watched him as he stepped outside.

     A fine sheet of constant rain fell, varnishing the world. Mr. Kent felt it on his face and smiled. It was refreshing. A little cold perhaps, but refreshing none the less. He turned back towards the now-closed door, moving his face closer to it. Through the clouded glass he saw shadows moving and the sound of footsteps heading up the stairs. He saw the distorted yellow of the upstairs landing light go off and heard further footsteps followed by the muffled screech of an old hinge. With the sound of that hinge aching back on itself, he paused, counting in his head. When an appropriate amount of time had passed, he pulled the paper up with one hand while fiddling around in his pocket with the other. Eventually, he produced an envelope. He put the paper inside, licked the lip of it and clumsily folded it over, running his fingers along the seams to press it down more. He then pushed it up against the door and pulled a pen from his inside breast pocket and scrawled on the face of the envelope: