The undedigned times. Part 2.

Five.

~Westbury was an old house hiding out in the countryside. Its white outer walls the prime opposite to the varied colours of grass and trees that surrounded it. Antonin had been here for some time now. The house was large, too large, for any real use. Room after room stood empty, only one part was given over to clinical use. At his feet the glass laid scattered. The kitchen area was designed to promote independence, yet he could hear them come running almost as soon as the bottle had slipped from the shelf. Everything seemed to promote something, it was all forced, he felt. What’s the point in taking you away from one thing, dumping you in another only to spend all your time trying to return you to the previous. Two of the nurses came creeping in, their eyes always locked behind bars, always expecting the worst. It was like their brains constantly feed on negativity. ‘What have you never dropped a bottle?’ he said as they stood hesitantly by the door. ‘It’s ok son, there’s no need to be afraid, it was an accident wasn’t it’ Moving towards him her eyes once more sat far back, her question almost an opening prod, like she was defusing a bomb, scared that at any minute he might explode.

~Walking in the gardens of Westbury he felt good. The fresh air was something he always enjoyed, it refreshed him, snapped him back into thinking, which was good. The main doctor, Simmons, was a tall sharp man. His face sat like a plate on top of straw, his nose the dial on a weather vain. He took Antonin for many sessions. The two sat in the consulting room and chatted almost daily, his voice showed little, true, concern. It bubbled beneath shrilled tones always on the verge of self congratulation. He didn’t care much for these sessions, his main preoccupation since his arrival was what he could do now he was here. He was free from a lot of the things that pressed on him previously. He no longer had to find justifications for himself. He had always felt as if everything in the world quarrelled with him, pecked away, always trying to set him up. Here a lot of things were done for him, he enjoyed the simplicity of only having to put his washing down a shoot and then next day it was washed and pressed back in his draws. Meals were at the same time everyday. He had his sessions with Simmons, everything was just so, nicely placed for his understanding. Yet he still had the hunger, that very deep need to show his own existence. A bright poster sat pinned to one of the walls, it was for art classes, he could feel their eyes burning into his shoulder, you were always jumped upon. You couldn’t just look at something without one of them making a note, forcing you harder than you wish.

~A small sack of his post had sat at the foot of his bed for some time. Not long after looking at the art poster he decided to look through it. His room had been rented out. There was a letter from Ruben Vojak, or at least it seemed to be, it was on his headed notepaper, but after greater examination he found it to be from Hermann Vojak, his nephew. He thought this all very strange, why would they be writing to him, as he read on he was even more confused. They had held his room for a few weeks after he had been taken away but with the economy as it was they had no choice but to give it out to someone else. “You won’t be needing it any longer” This line stood out. It bellowed all around his room. It hadn’t really hit him that he wouldn’t be returning to all that he knew before. He placed the letter down carefully and rested back on the bed. It wasn’t all that great anyway, he thought. He had probably meant to leave anyway, he bit the inside of his check by mistake and felt hot. That place wasn’t him, he wasn’t settled there for life, what did they think of him. Did they think he was stuck, resigned to that nothingness! He thought about sleeping but felt too annoyed. Taking the letter once more he read it from the start again. Why would the Vojak’s be concerned in all this, he couldn’t work it out. The entire thing was dripping in regret! Further down it explained that the room was now being taken by Daulston’s Sister. She was a young mother, abandoned by the father. He was hit by a strange feeling, he was sure it was because it was the first time he had thought about Daulston since he did himself in. He did feel happy that the room was going to someone who probably needed it, yet he tried to think all afternoon if he had ever heard mention of a sister before.
'Am I free to leave here?’ once more sitting opposite Simmons, Antonin asked his first question.
‘What do you think?’ the plate and spike replied.
‘I can do anything!’ he began, picking at the tread in his sleeve. ‘I’m free to think and act, I can do anything!’
'Is that so?’
‘Yes!’
‘Is that why you cut your arm off?’ Shaking his head Antonin dismissed the question and instead rattled off a few in his own his head. How long will I live? What will be my greatest day? Has it already been? Does everybody think the same? How do you know anything to be true unless you test it yourself?
‘What would you say if I said your arm was in that box?’ He could hear the doctors voice but tried to ignore it. The consulting room was becoming heavy from the long rain that had begun to fall outside. Will I ever feel contented? Will I find a struggle worthy of taking pain for? His questions flittered on, but still the doctor continued. ‘Go on have a look!’ Most of the sessions ran through the same routine, both battling to feel comfortable. ‘It’s really in there, I tell you!’ The rigid cardboard box sat across from them in a part of the room that he never really took any notice of. It was by the window, the shadow of the rain drops showing on the lid, then disappearing. He watched them almost in a trance. He knew it wasn’t in there. There was no way it could be.
‘Would you take it back, would you have your arm back if you could?’ the doctor prodded.
‘Of course’
'Really?’ Simmons actually seemed interested, he leaned forward in his seat.
‘Its always better to be ‘better’!’ Antonin mumbled.
'Do you wish to be better then?’
‘Its not like that, don’t make this into some illness!’ he could see his twinkling eyes, desperate to file a form, diagnose, breath life into this deflated mess. ‘Having two arms is defiantly better than having one!’
'So why remove one in the first place?’ the pencil flickering in his fingers, he leant even closer, feeding on the immanent breakthrough.
‘Why do anything! Why breath, why not simply see the world in a instant and then turn blue and be gone! Why stop there, give me a thousand arms, a million heads, twenty tongues!’
‘Lets keep it serious now please’
‘Serious! What the bloody hell is serious about any of this! Its all absurd, who knows maybe I’m the one in the right and your wrong!’

Six.

~Johnson was another patient. He stood now with his back hard against the Perspex. Everything seemed very sterile, that was the problem with this place, it wasn’t based on anything tangible. In his hand the razor blade hung dull and low. It was clear he meant to use it, but to what extent it wasn’t clear. Antonin was the only other person present. He stood without thought and watched. Johnson was from the north, his thick accent coughing up from his thickened chest. ‘How did it feel?’ he rambled, his head tingling, eyes darting. ‘How long did it take ya?’ He had been conscious of this adoration for a while now, it seemed his actions were some kind of gloried flag for his fellow patient. His mind was blank. Not completely blank, but like it had been for some time now, blank to events immediately around him. He understood what was happening, but it didn’t really effect him. Everybody was free to act as they wished, why should he intervene.
‘What did you do with it after?’ Johnson, still with the blade poised, bickered on. ‘Where is it now?’

~At night he would often sit alone and roll up his trouser leg. The knife skimmed up and down his shin, dragging dead skin bundled up against his thumb. Actions are so easy, he thought. He could do it, he had done so before, its all about choice. The empty box still sat in the corner of the room, he didn’t want to get rid of it, that would consist of brining it once more to their attention, he really didn’t want to give them the chance to drag him once more into another conversation about it. He hadn’t seen Simmons for a while now and he knew why. During their last conversations he had noticed some blankets bundled on top of the cupboard. It seems the awkward doctor had also become a lodger at the great white house. He had been kicked out of the family home after his wife found out about his affair. There goes life, he thought.

~The art lessons took place in the main room. It had large glass windows that showed out into the grounds. He had little choice but to take part. It was one of his great pleasures to sit and stare out in the countryside. This was living, he felt. He argued with himself, he would sit in an old wicker chair sipping a watered down scotch and debate his success. Maybe his greatest weakness was always questioning, maybe he trapped himself. It was becoming harder to remember his life before, he could hardly think of his room, it seemed to float about unnaturally, always becoming defiled by his room here. He was made art monitor. This was such an insult. He was to manage all the materials, hand them out, collect them in. At fist he felt like they had done it to try and build him up, but he began to realise that they had done it because they believed a man with only one arm was not fit enough to paint, or stick bits of card together. He wished to be back in his chair, the day outside was cool and leant itself perfectly to contemplation. This place was beginning to cave in on him. It was becoming just like before, it was pointless. At the far side of the room he saw Johnson. He was tracing the wood-chipping form the wallpaper with a green crayon. He looked up and smiled. His left eyebrow gouged out. He wanted to find an outlet, yet again it was all turning to muck, how could he drag himself into a gloried role. He clearly saw his old room, just for a second. It was that day, he felt just the same now. In truth that one act was his one true act of instinct. That was going to be his tipping point, his watershed, had it worked, he didn’t know. Maybe they were all correct, maybe he was failing, wasting his go at living.

~They were often taken by coach to Frensham ponds. It sat mysteriously in a deep wooded area forty minutes from Westbury. The sand was dark and unfiltered. The entire place always seemed as if it was fake. Everything was just that little bit out of place. The water was thick with reeds, but only in certain areas. Some were clear and decent for swimming. He enjoyed wading out, the water was cold but welcoming. He could only stand the sludge under feet for so long until it forced him to dive under. Being in the water truly returned him to a basic state. It was like being sheltered. The others splashed about, sending great amounts of white foam scattering everywhere. He always swam as far as he could, he was stronger on one side obviously, and liked to lay on his back and kick his legs. There was another beach, it was sheltered by some heavy bushes and he always tried to swim around to it. On one occasion he swam particularly strongly and made it away from the others quite easily. He crawled onto the beach and settled down. The water dried in the sun, leaving his skin feeling tight. An old lady arrived whilst he was there. She set out an old sun chair and kicking off her shoes settled down. He offered a polite smile in her direction and once more turned his head to the sky. After some time they got chatting. As he moved closer she made a piercing shape with her lips, as if she was imagining the pain of losing and arm. He hesitated, he was used to being rejected, however her face glowed with compassion. Her name was Marian. Her hair was white and swirling, like delicate bundles of clouds. She had a beautiful round face, subtle pink cheeks and glowing eyes. She offered him sweet tea. It was black tea laced with whiskey. They both drank and smiled at the way it made them feel. As he spoke he noticed her habit of raising her shoulders, pinching her head almost, as if to say I don’t really understand all that you are saying. But he didn’t feel annoyed by it, if anything he was sure that she was the most decent, reasonable person he had met. They talked for a long time until the sky drew colder and she had to go on her way. He sat alone on the beach for while and thought that maybe companionship was what he was searching for. But what did he have to offer, what good had he ever created. The swim back to the others was slow and painful. He got cramp several times and the water kept on splashing in his eyes.

~On the way back from the ponds another time the bus broke down. They were all forced to get out and stand by the side of the road.
‘I hate people like you!’ the little boy shouted. A family had stopped, the dad was keen to help out, his head was soon lost under the bonnet, his family stood around uncertain of their roles. The young boy of six or not much older held a very definite curiosity, he circled them, whooping, firing an imaginary machinegun.
‘Your all weirdo’s!’ he cooed. ‘We don’t like your sorts!’
His mother shoed him away and he was belted into the car, but the words still ran about, they were not so easy to rein in. These were the single most painful things Antonin had ever heard. He felt so distant. How can he be so foreign to a mere child. Was he really that far removed from reality!

Seven.

~’So have you gotten any answers?’
Joseph came to visit, it was completely out of the blue. He sat out in the garden, the dark wooden bench pressed hard lines deep into the grass.
‘I wasn’t looking for any!’ Antonin said as they both ate worn sandwiches. There was definitely something strained between the two of them, it wasn’t like it had been before. The old man stared off into the distance. His lips were frail as they spoke, tripping up several times. As they sat very still he was suddenly reminded of being taken back to his apartment. It was not long after everything that had happened in the park. Accompanied by a policeman he had been escorted to show them where he had placed his arm. It all felt like he was under suspicion of murder, like he was showing them where he had buried a body. He sat on his bed as the old chest was opened, the smell seemed to appal everyone present. Joseph was there, he hung morosely by the door, his body ready to quit the moment things got too gruesome. He had noticed that day a change between them. They were no longer equals, he had fallen down the pecking order, now he was tainted, placed amongst that difficult minority whom nobody really has the stomach to deal with.
'At least its gone to someone who really needs it now’ The sun was floating above the high line of the far off trees. It flickered in-between awkward branches, they both sat staring out towards the wondrous landscape.
‘Hey?’
The conversation was airy at most. They both fiddled with it, neither really wanting to delve to deep.
‘Daulston’s Sister, she moved in to my room, I’m glad for that.’
‘Oh yeah course’ there was a strange pause, he could feel the old man squirming ‘you haven’t heard then?’
‘No?’
‘The baby died, cot death’ The silence grew, nothing could be said.
The sandwiches were finished and soon they both noticed. For the first time since he arrived Joseph looked across. They sat looking at one another, he was crying out inside for it to be like it was before, but he could see in his tired eyes that it was lost forever.
‘It seems that damn room of yours is cursed or something!’

~Rising from the table Antonin took a few steps out into the heart of the lawn. Such a stupid thing to say! He was filled with so much disbelief. He thought so much better of Joseph.
‘You’re a damn waste!’ he heard Joseph’s voice cannoning towards him, he turned to see him banging his fist against his knee. ‘I don’t understand what it is you were trying to prove by doing all this, I really haven’t got a clue why someone would mutilate themselves!’
‘Mutilate!’ the word stuck in Antonin’s teeth. He had never thought of it like that before. ‘you really don’t understand!’ he said.
'No I bloody don’t!’ Joseph called back whilst biting at his finger.
‘Well nor do I to be honest!’ He felt the sweat growing on his forehead. He felt like just being destroyed, totally annihilated. ‘That’s what its all about isn’t it, nobody really understands!’ he shouted.
‘Exactly! But there’s other ways, different ways! You didn’t have to do this!’
‘Didn’t I?’
'Damn no!’ Joseph got to his feet.
‘Well its all relative I suppose. It’s all part of the same curve.’
'Bloody hell, stop it!’ reaching out he grabbed Antonin by the neck ‘Stop all this nonsense, your not stupid, you know what’s right!’
‘It is! That’s all I can say, were all spinning in the wheel, it leaves us dizzy, what else can I say!’
'You bloody idiot! Your just a kid, you don’t know anything! Your just a bloody selfish kid!’

He felt the thick hand strike him across the cheek. It left him dazed for much of the day, long after Joseph had left.

‘In that case Joseph might just be on the greatest upward curve any of us will ever know!’ The vicar walked away, his words settling between the scattered graves. Antonin laughed to himself and that smile sat on his lips for a long time after that.

~He met the girl who was arranging the flowers. She was in a strong family line who all arranged flowers. Her small pale face sat perfectly in his world. They chatted and he asked her to share lunch some time. They soon became very much attached to one anther and when he said he would take care of her always he meant it more than anything he had every said. He wanted someone to take care of, to feel special, to know love and with this sweet, perfect girl he knew it was obtainable. Life was slowly becoming manageable, each day he would push himself to face up to challenges and he was eternally grateful when he came out on the right side of them. Passing by the vicarage one day the window was half open. Inside the vicar was dancing to a Bob Dylan song that played purposely from a radio. Upon the table a small bible sat open, the vicar’s shadow danced all around it, dipping in and out, sometimes pausing, sometimes flashing straight across. Beautiful he thought. We’re all meant to grow, to challenge and be challenged, no one knows the answers, the whole truth. But we’re meant to ride the beast the best we can.

Don’t be afraid he reiterated to himself, be brave, stride the path, we’re all doing the same!

End.

--------------

The undesigned times. Part 1. - a novella

~Taking the knife in his right hand Antonin applied it firmly to the underside of his left arm. Ten minutes later he had cut through completely and a deep thud deadened into the floor. It was a further day before he felt the strength to rise from his bed.Some days later as the sunlight streamed into his small apartment and he sat eating a small plate of white fish, he bound and placed the severed limb into an old wooden chest that stood upright against one of his bare walls and felt that he should not have to think of it again.

~Over the next week as he went about tidying his small room, he imagined the possibilities of living here with another. He had been initially surprised by this train of thought because it was not one which had surfaced within him before. He was only twenty four and this was the first time that desire had been subdued by thoughts of longevity.He looked around the confined space of his apartment, with its one main room encompassing both sleeping and eating quarters, he believed it not fit to accommodate another. It was not in anyway dingy or glum, in actual fact he had often thought of it as being his ideal lodgings. His mind fell back to the first time that he had come across the room. He had been looking for a new place to stay for a while, he remembered being impressed by the grandeur of the building. It's warn marble frontage shone when the sunlight showered onto it, the old crumbling plaster work held a certain dignity in its unravelling state. Although the building was not the largest in the street it did have an unnatural quality of appearing much to big for its own structure. This meant that it seemed to hold a kind of snobbery about itself, as if it felt shamed by the others around it. It could be seen all the way from both ends of the street, that is if you knew it was there. This notion warmed him. He enjoyed the idea that something could be so visible to some and also so invisible to others.

~The main reason that he had taken the room was because it had its own small balcony. This was something that he constantly thought of as being truly wonderful. The balcony overlooked the main street and he regularly sat and watched the street life as it flickered by. He had always thought that a balcony was a real treat, something that a lot of other people didn’t have, he felt almost triumphant at this, that he should have something that others, who thought less of him did not have.

~The small kitchen area although perfectly decent for him would not suffice were he to live with another. The fridge had often caused him problems and the sink no longer worked. He had been forced to wash all his plates and cutlery in the small wash basin by his bed ever since it ceased up. He was sure that this would not be good for another to endure, he was use’t to it, it would be fair.

~So it was as he dried his plate one evening that he gave up, for now at least, on this idea. It was not that he didn’t like the idea because it was one that did appeal. The idea of waking with the same person over and over was pleasant, of sharing and interacting. It was just that since he had resigned from his job his days had began to take on a glowing structure that he was happy to allow to continue. Also it was true to say that as a person he was not yet truly to point where he would feel willing enough to endanger another’s happiness simply on a whim, simply because he fancied some company. He was very conscious of others happiness, of true happiness, of living from the ideal and not simply churning through the minutes and days. He knew that if he was to commit to another he would only be able to do so after he had set a base upon which his own happiness could forever be settled. He finished the plate and placed it unusually in the cupboard.

~He still held that morning when he had woken and decided quite suddenly that he should no longer give himself to work that he did not feel gave him any worth, to be a watershed. One that ranked as a true peak in his life. The air that morning, as he stood in the office of the foreman Ruben Vojak, contained such a wondrous touch of the new that he was sure that he was correct in this decision. The gentle breeze that bathed his face as he left the warehouse for the last time reassured him, it was strange that on this morning he would feel so very free, released. He was so accustomed to the pain of the mornings. Its constant shaking and barking at him as he walked unwillingly towards another eight hours of generic action. That morning however his eyes had not stung. It spurred him on and made him go out into the days air in search of what would make him whole, truly happy as a person.

Two.

~The first few months of this great new passing were spent relaxing into the freedom that he now had. He stumbled through a variety of outlets. Painting had been a easy first step. He had taken great care in choosing colours and materials which he thought would result in him producing great works. However the initial thrill of this soon faded. ~His first attempt was to paint a disused canal a small distance from his apartment. He had taken it upon himself to seek out some places that might lend themselves to his hunger. The spot that he chose was at the point of a very soft bend. The bank in front dropped gently away from the feet of the easel and he enjoyed the wind as it rolled across the tops of the trees opposite. This spot had been on the route that he had taken to work for many years but he had never actually taken the time to stop and engage the view. Now he stood and accepted it, as if the two raw objects were willing each other to grow and become better. The canal had not been in use for a good many years now. The water was dark and fought for supremacy with any number of weeds and vines that flaunted amongst it. He was sure that any life that once survived within it was now more than likely dead. These banks had once supported barges filled with coal but now it was derelict and forgotten. He loved the degradation of the site. The very fact that no one came here any more made it perfect. What else would he do he thought! He saw no point in painting that which everyone painted. He might as well wait until they had finished and simply copy what they had done. What better thing to paint than something which all others have abandoned. He felt that he understood such a place. He didn’t feel sympathy for it. On the contrary he felt a great sense of wonder towards it. He could quite happily sit and stare at it for hours.

~The afternoon that he had spent by the canal had been very satisfying and he had felt, that maybe, he was correct in his judgement that painting could become his outlet. However several days later as he relaxed on his balcony in the midday heat he witnessed something which effected him too such a point that he would reject the idea of painting completely.

~He had woken that morning with not a clue as too what day it was. He thought of it as a Wednesday, this it must be, he reassured himself and after a little more rest he rose from his bed and embarked upon the belly of the day. It had been some time after two in the afternoon when he settled down on the balcony, that he saw a group of middle aged men rushing along the street. Each of them carrying an easel. As they reached the top of the street they stopped and began to set up their equipment. Over the next few hours he watched perplexed as they meticulously went about applying brush stroke after brush stroke to the canvas in front of them. He had already decided that he was not very hungry and so after removing a small bowl of salad from the fridge he made himself comfortable once again on the balcony and picked at it.Soon the heat from the midday sun became to much for him to bare and he retreated inside. After laying on his bed for a while and attempting to ignore his irritation he once again stepped out onto the balcony. He must have in-fact fallen asleep for longer than he realised as he was surprised to be surrounded by the incoming gloom of the evening. Now as he looked out at where the gentlemen had sat all he saw was a small white tent. A thick artificial light hummed from inside it. A small number of people filed in and out and occasionally he caught a glimpse of a member of the group greeting some of them and gesturing extravagantly at its opening. Leaving the balcony he returned inside and washed his face and neck. Moving around his room he felt puzzled that he should be thinking so much about that tent and about what they had painted. He felt annoyed by it all and he knew that his annoyance would only grow. It was a quarter past ten and due to the fact that he had already slept he was not in the slightest bit tired. He decided to take a walk in the cool night air in order to better prepare him for sleeping.

~As he stepped out into the evening he felt his hunger to act, to take action overpower any other thoughts he may have. His walk had only lasted ten minutes when he suddenly found himself standing outside the white tent. He had stood listening to the declining sounds within it. The last few inhabitants had trailed away and now he waited as the opening was sealed and everything was quiet. It was only as the waxy outer ripped under the pressure of the knife that he fully committed to entering the tent. Suddenly he was inside. The light was fading but still allowed enough illumination to see. The ten large paintings sat around in a large circle. He scanned them all individually, he was interested too see anything in them. They were all of a decent standard, all portraying exactly what they had seen. A faint anger coloured his checks. They had neglected the small church at the far end, the changing light, everything that was open to see. What a complete waste he thought. They had even dared to house them in this tent as if they had created something new, something to be celebrated. Suddenly he looked closer he began to move from one painting to another, his eyes focused on one particular point it was his building. Leaning closer he clearly made out his balcony. Without thinking the knife jagged across the canvas. Moving to the next one again he sort out the balcony dropping his head again the knife tore through the painting. Again and again he moved in front of a painting and the knife slashed hard through the layers of paint, canvas and board. Finally one painting remained and still he focused upon the balcony where he had been sitting. The balcony that sat outside his room, from where he had witnessed the group painting. Again he lifted the knife, the balcony from where each one of them had neglected to paint him and again the knife sunk into the painting.

Three.

~Three or four days later as he was washing some of his clothing in the small sink he decided to throw out all of the painting equipment. The white tent at the end of the street had finally been removed. He felt little sympathy for the members of the group who had gathered to see the extent of the damage. He knew that their emotions were not of any real purpose. He once again sat on his balcony and sipped a hot cup of tea. His bare feet bathed in the morning sun. He was glad for the realisation that this episode had brought around but he felt no need to recognise the fact that it had deprived him of any actual time, or too dwell any longer on the actions that he had taken. He was sure of one thing, that his journey of expression should continue. Reaching for a pad of paper he took the pencil from behind his ear and began to write a few lines. Writing, poetry to be more precise, had for a couple of days been his latest attempt at creativity. Although at first it had not been an easy option for him he had began to enjoy it. To help him out he had taken to copying verses from an old book he had laying about. He found this a completely fulfilling process. He enjoyed not only reading and writing out each page exactly but also rearranging them and playing with the structure of what was written. He found that he could spend hours simply doing this and he felt it a very good use of his time.

~He was now pleased that the street below had returned to its previous state. As usual the locals flittered up and down. Occasionally he peered up from his pad and glanced at them. He thought that maybe he should write a little about this. Tearing a clean sheet he paused and then placed the pencil upon the paper, the pencil hovered, pinching in the blank space between point and paper. Suddenly there was a loud knocking at his door. At first he tried to ignore it as he felt the kindling of an idea, however the knocking continued and he was forced to rise from the balcony
‘Alright!’ he cried. ‘Honestly what do you want!’As he reached the door he stopped and peered through the small metal peep hole. He saw the bulbous face of Rowan Frieberg. Taking a deep breath he took the door handle and pulled the door open. ‘Antonin! Thank the skies that you are home, thank the very blueness of the skies!’ The short hands of his neighbour groped at the door frame as he struggled to catch his breath. Suddenly Antonin became aware of his situation. He pulled the door towards him and covered his left side. He was only wearing a short sleeved shirt.‘Is everything alright Rowan?’ he reluctantly asked, only his head visible to corridor. ‘Alright! No it truly is not my boy! Daulston! Daulston he’s done himself, down there in his room!’At that point his legs gave out on him and he slumped to the floor of the hallway unconscious. It was a while before Antonin moved from behind the door. The day was too hot for a jacket! He also wanted to make sure that Rowan Frieberg would not wake suddenly as he made his way across the landing. He held his head against the frame of the door and sighed. Why was it his door that had been knocked upon. Surely such responsibility should be placed upon those of much older years. Surely it was his role as the youngest member of the house to be free of these things. Thinking back to his writing he did however concede that he was not overly busy. Once more watching Rowan Frieberg closely he accepted that he was definitely out for some time and that it was reluctantly the correct thing to go and check on Daulston.

~A few minutes later he hoisted down Jacques Daulston's limp body from its crude noose. A doctor arrived some minutes later and pronounced the middle aged man dead. Antonin stood politely by in the shadows as he did so, making sure that he held his left side close to the wall. He answered the few simple questions with one word answers and pointed him in the direction of Rowan Frieberg for any further information. It was as he was once again sitting on his balcony that he saw them take the body away. He had not known Daulston very well however it was obvious from the sate of his room that he had not been living very well. There was greats amounts of dirt and dust, the windows were closed and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He had also noticed several letters and bills and it was clear that he had fallen into some kind of money troubles. Thinking back he had noticed that Daulston had not been riding his bicycle lately. Instead over the last few weeks he had always seen him walking, something which he did very ungraciously and obviously begrudgingly. Now maybe he thought that he had to sell it to try to pay off what ever he owed. He thought later that maybe he should go back to Daulston’s room and search out some names that should be notified, those who would be saddened by such news. Perhaps he could find the addresses of those who he owed money too and tell them that they no longer need barrack poor Daulston but the closest he got was the top of the landing where he heard the gathered sounds of several other people already busily undertaking those tasks.

~The death made a small impact in the newspaper the next day. As he sat and read the few lines he reflected that soon all would be forgotten, soon Daulston’s room would be cleaned out and someone else would be offered it. Soon the gossip and strange feelings would subside. Soon Daulston would be forgotten. He remembered back to a few months ago when he had read an article about another person who had hung themselves. A gentleman of fifty had also fallen under the strain of debt. He had been found hanging by his two young children, who spent two hours trying to pull him down. He again remembered how he had felt upon reading this, it had always struck him odd that anything could come to such a head. For surely such things as debt can always been alleviated, what the man had done made everything permanent. Think now of the debt that his children had too live with having found their father like that! And now Daulston had done the same, so maybe he was not found by his young children but all the same he did fall on the sword needlessly. Also he was angry because he had made him be couscous of his own movements. Made him be weary of being seen by Rowan Frieberg and the doctor. For the first time since he had done it he felt disturb by how someone else had made him feel about it. He folded the paper and placed it in the bin. He was suddenly disappointed with Daulston. There are plenty of other ways to survive. Plenty of ways too keep your head above the waterline. Look at himself for example he had chosen a line to start from, to change and grow. He had not taken the simple route. Ok so he did not have people hounding him for debts but its all the same life in the end, the same streets, the same building for Christ sake. Living, he once again mused was all about affecting, about having courage to break away from what displeases you, from what causes you pain and building your own pathways to joy and freedom.

~Once again he took the pad of paper and flicked back through the pages that he had copied, suddenly he thought that it had been very much just something to pass the time. Tearing them from the binder he threw them in the bin. Moving over to the small desk he placed the pad in a draw and locked it cursing Daulston as he did and he went back to sitting on his balcony in the medium sun.

Four.

~Walking through the back streets of the hustled town centre Antonin was reminded that to be alone is not something that should be avoided. Escaping the growing crowds of the early afternoon, the narrow cobbled route offered a freshness of thought that he always struggled to find when surrounded by the over-active millings of crowds. The heavy coat that he wore kept him comfortable from the annoyance of the often brisk wind. Its smooth prickly woollen mix cushioned against his neck as he moved. He had spent some time before he had left his apartment successfully tucking the left sleeve into the pocket. He had already taken to pining it to the lower breast, so that it would not flap about as he walked. He had also padded it a little so as not to draw any attention.

~As he approached the corner he saw the pub and thought immediately of Joseph. Joseph, although an old man was a welcome companion. A like, free mind and between the two of them a strong connection had built. Entering the quiet pub he unbutton his jacket just a little and allowed the room to further encourage his patronage.

~‘Hello boy’ Joseph’s warm voice crackled about the thick walls. Joseph always seemed to bring with him an air of knowledge. He was already in conversation with the landlord who was fast in agreement with what was said. The light from the afternoon sun laid coloured between them as they sat at a small table. These moments were ones that he enjoyed above all others. He sat with extreme comfort as Joseph talked. As always his soft clear voice resonated agreeably within him. He talked of frail social standards and glorious sudden change, all of which were done so with great conviction and not too little humour.

~‘You know boy’ he began.‘It’s getting close to silly hour out there, I nearly didn’t make it through!’ Placing his mug onto the table Joseph searched about in his pockets and finally pulled out a large bundle of sandwiches.‘Good, thought for a moment there that I had gone and left these behind!’Removing the paper that surrounded them he offered them over. The contents of the sandwiches fell about the table and the two of them laughed. They coyly peered over to the bar. A large sign clearly stated that no food was to be brought onto and consumed on the preemies, however the owner shook his head in resignation and continued with his duties. The sight of two decent affable types was so welcome that they were always offered certain leniencies and they were thankful. The rest of the afternoon was given up by the pair of them as they happily sat and talked.

~Antonin felt comfortable enough to mention Daulston’s suicide.
‘It’s a funny thing suicide.’ Joseph said after a moments pause. ‘You know I’ve never really believed in it! There was a guy when I lived on the base who shot himself in the head all because some girl he had been seeing had been married off to some local. Gruesome it was!’ ‘What you saw it?’ Antonin said after a moment.‘Yeah I was on guard duty, I was passing by the armoury and heard the shot… what a bloody mess that was!’ ‘God that must have been awful!’ 'it was but you kind of got use’t to that kind of sight!’‘Yeah well I suppose I was lucky with Daulston!’ ‘So you found him did you?’ ‘Well sort of, it was too late, there was nothing that could be done!’ ‘Still quite a shock I bet.’ ‘Not really a dead person’s quite a still, un-frightening thing. I didn’t really get too close and there wasn’t any mess or such.’ ‘Yep there was far to much of that sort of thing back years ago in the service, but then the naivety of youth always gives leave for the mind to run away!’

~Their gasps shattered the beautiful day. They seemed to cut short thewonderful weather and immediately summon up a chilled wind. This wind brought with it an intense stinging sound that buzzed through Antonin’s ears. He found himself very much detached from all that was happening. As the minutes elapsed more people joined the crowd around him. He felt so abnormal, so attacked that all he could do was to look at Joseph for help. However he offered little. He heard his voice painfully calling at him. ‘My dear boy! What could have possibly possessed you to do such a thing! Fetch a doctor, someone get this boy some help!’It was at this point that great pain shot through his body. He felt the blood seeping from his left side. The women also began shouting. The children ran over as only children can do when alerted to something that their as yet undeveloped brains cannot fully comprehend. One of the women bulked their progress so very determined not to let them any closer then they had already got.‘What on earth can be wrong with you?’ she bellowed in an explosion of over protection. Gripping the children hard by their arms she dragged them away to the other side of the park.‘What’s wrong with him? Something must have made him do it?’Using his remaining arm he attempted to once again button up his jacket. A hush seemed to fall as he did so. As if they were watching some form of freak show. They whispered and nudged one another. Suddenly he felt weak. His mind filled with desperate thoughts of escape. He tried to deny all that was happening but he could not. Soon the police arrived. Then they were followed by a doctor and a solicitor from a office just across the park. They all helped him into the back of the car and he was driven away. On the road to the clinic he heard their words of dismay and their damnation of the young