The To Do List

Thirteen

I thought it was morning, but it isn't. I thought the house was this

quiet because everyone had got up and gone out. It's only six o'clock

though, and I'm stuck with the muffled light of dawn.

I get a packet of cheese nibbles from the kitchen cupboard and turn on

the radio. Following a pile-up several people have been trapped in their cars

overnight on the M3. They had no access to toilet facilities, and food and

water had to be delivered to them by the emergency services. Gridlock. The

world is filling up. A Tory MP cheats on his wife. A body is found in a hotel.

It's like listening to a cartoon. I turn it off and get a choc-ice from the

freezer. It makes me feel vaguely drunk and very cold. I get my coat off the

peg and creep about the kitchen listening for leaves and shadows and the

soft sound of dust falling. This warms me up a bit.

It's seventeen minutes past six.

Maybe something different will be out in the garden – wild buffalo, a

spaceship, mounds of red roses. I open the back door really slowly, begging

the world to bring me something startling and new. But it's all horribly

familiar – empty flowerbeds, soggy grass and low grey cloud.

I text Zoey one word: DRUGS!!

She doesn't text back. She's at Scott's, I bet, hot and happy in his

arms. They came to visit me at the hospital, sat together on one chair like

they got married and I missed it. They brought me some plums and a

Halloween torch from the market.

"I've been helping Scott on the stall," Zoey said.

All I could think was how quickly the end of October had come, and

how the weight of Scott's arm across her shoulder was slowing her down. A

week has gone by since then. Although she's texted me every day, she

doesn't seem interested in my list any more.

Without her, I guess I'll just stand here on the step and watch the

clouds gather and burst. Water will run in rivulets down the kitchen window

and another day will begin to collapse around me. Is that living? Is it even

anything?

A door opens and shuts next door. There's the heavy tread of boots on

mud. I walk across and stick my head over the fence.

"Hello again!"

Adam puts his hand to his chest as if I gave him a heart attack. "Jesus!

You scared me!"

"Sorry."

He's not dressed for gardening. He's wearing a leather jacket and

jeans and he's carrying a motorcycle helmet.

"Are you going out?"

"Yeah."

We both look at his bike. It's down by the shed, tied up. It's red and