Silhouette

XIII

John tugs at his tie. The material is chafing his neck. He is the last person on a row of twelve people all dressed in white shirts, black pants and shoes. They are standing under a canopy in a garden.

The ground is an expertly mowed green lawn. Wet with dew and dotted with grasshoppers. It will soon be carpeted. Several vans are parked a few feet away brimming with decorating materials and furniture. A huge Victorian style mansion stands to their right. Gabled roofs, rounded towers, dormers and bay windows.

The event planner, Ramsey, is addressing them. He is short and stocky with a jerry curl that makes him look older than his years. His right hand is completely covered in tattoos.

John never understood the need for tattoos. Why mar your skin with ink? But then, people always wanted things, whether they were logical or not.

"These are very important people, so everything needs to be perfect," says Ramsey. He looks at each of them before his eyes come to rest on John.

John drops his gaze and stares at his feet.

"I don't want any mistakes especially from you, newbie."

"Ah... yes. I... I understand."

"You look like you could be with the security team."

John smiles. "N... no. I'll be b... b... better off here."

Ramsey nods. "Just don't screw it up. Ask questions if you don't understand something." He brings out pieces of paper from his pocket and hands it to them one after the other.

John collects his. It is the sitting arrangement for the guests.

"You will arrange the chairs in that order with the name plaques attached," says Ramsey. "Don't screw it up. We have a reason for doing so."

John stares at the paper. Goes through the list slowly. Down at the bottom is the name he is looking for.

Ramsey claps his hands. "Let's get to work, people."

It isn't until nightfall before all the guests arrive. All dressed in revealing dresses, glittering purses too small to hold anything and handsome tuxedos. John has to admit it is quite a boring job; walking around in circles serving champagne and margaritas.

Some of the guests are half drunk, trying to stay on their two feet or laughing at a joke too loud.

The sky is a dark velvet devoid of either the stars or the moon. The air is humming with a mix of conversations, a band strumming a lazy tune and the sounds of night traffic sluggishly moving beyond the gates.

At the centre of it all is a swimming pool bathed in blue. John stands near the edge with an empty tray in his hands. Stares as the water licks the edge. Stares at the ripples silently running from end to end. The light is enchanting. Blue.
The band is playing something lithe and sad. His head feels light and all noises fall into the background. He swallows.

The water draws him, tugs at his eyes, his chest and his feet. It seems to be whispering. It sounds enchanting to his ears. Almost lulling him to sleep. He takes a step closer then, another. His heart is running like a locomotive in his chest.

Suddenly, there is a scream and a face pops out of the water. A bloated face. All empty eyes and pale skin. A face he knows all too well.

John takes several steps back and knocks into a guest. Knocks over her glass of champagne, spilling it on her red dress.

"What the hell?" she says through gritted teeth. A few guests turn to watch them. She stares at the slowly spreading stain.

John stares at the pool. It is calm. Eerily calm. It almost seems like it is mocking him. There is no bloated face. He bets he must have imagined the scream. He picks himself up and turns to the woman staring daggers at him.