Monday – David Part Two

 

His feet thudded on the bridge, knees complaining with every impact. Running in these shoes was like trying to chop down a tree with bread knife. He reached the steps and went down them two at a time. He was ten steps from the bottom when he lost his footing and went flying. His shoulder hit first, slamming against the step and sending him sideways.

His body caught up and drove him the rest of the way. He tried to twist and curl but his face hit the stone at the bottom. Fire shot through his chin and cheek. He’d been hit in the face once or twice, but this was far worse, sharp stone biting through his flesh. Every muscle in his body jarred as he crumpled up.

He lay still, waiting for the pain to end or get worse. It stayed about the same and he didn’t want to move for fear of dying. Eventually, the silence got to him. He shifted slowly, expecting a bone to pop out of somewhere at any moment. It didn’t though and he climbed to his feet. His face throbbed and he’d collected a headache bad enough to make his eyes water.

He limped slowly around the bottom of the bridge and headed for Steph’s. He knew she was there. She had to be there. But where the hell was everyone else? He was denying the voice. He hadn’t heard it inside his head, calling his name in the same eerily well-spoken tones of the flower seller. If he admitted to hearing it, he would have to admit to the silence being something other than a freak occurrence.

Maybe there’d been a bomb threat and he and Steph had been too busy boning to hear it. She was loud. That brought a smile to his face which in turn made him wince and cup his bruised cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

He reached the block of flats and pressed the buzzer. He waited. He waited some more. He pressed it again and then again and then he hammered on it, smashing it as though the sheer intensity of his blows would somehow magic Steph into being. But she wasn’t there. Or maybe she wasn’t answering.

He tried the door, tugging and shoving on it, but it was solid. With a groan he barely recognised, he put his back to the door and slid down until his arse touched the cool concrete.

The flower seller! How hadn’t he thought about it earlier? He clambered up and set off. He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up at them for a while. They seemed to leer at him, inviting him to risk them a second time. Sweat trickled down his temple and stung his cheek where the skin had been ripped off. With a deep breath, he mounted the stairs.

He reached the top and crossed the river. In the centre of the bridge he paused and stared across London. There was nothing. No movement, no noise, nothing. Even the pigeons were quiet. He was alone, utterly alone. He sniffed and scrubbed a hand across his nose. His eyes were stinging and it couldn’t be from tears, but they came running down his face just the same.

He rubbed them away and stomped on, left leg aching and dragging behind him. He took the stairs down as slowly as he could. Once he saw the flower seller standing behind his table, David couldn’t help but speed up, ignoring the stabbing going through his leg with each step.

He reached the bottom and stopped, gasping and blinking away the spots before his eyes. He was fit, why was he struggling so much? The fall hurt like a bastard, but it shouldn’t make him suddenly ill. Still, his sides hurt and he couldn’t draw breath. He meandered down Embankment to the flower seller and stopped, hands on his knees.

‘Hello, David. You don’t look so well, perhaps you should take a seat.’

The flower seller motioned to a bench and David dropped gratefully into it, grunting as his leg jarred.

‘What have you done?’

‘Me? Nothing.’

‘You lying bastard. What have you done?’

‘Did your wife enjoy the flowers?’

David ground his teeth together, eyes getting wet again. Who was he? And where the hell were they?

‘Where are we?’

‘London of course, the most beautiful, wonderful city in the world. You know why I like London so much, David?’

‘Stop using my name, stop calling me that.’

The flower seller went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘You can meet anyone in London. You can just be walking along, enjoying the sunshine, or the rain, and bump into someone remarkable. Don’t you think that’s great?’

His head was spinning and he rested it on the back of the bench. His voice seemed to come from far away. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Tell me, David, wh—’

‘STOP CALLING ME THAT, STOP SAYING MY NAME.’

‘Goodness. Well, I’m not sure that’s entirely called for. What would you have me call you? How about D?’

David blushed and clenched his fist. How did he know? Was it a lucky guess? He knew it wasn’t though. He knew, somehow. He hated D, almost as much as he hated David. It was one of the many things he wouldn’t miss about Amber. It was like the cornflakes. She knew he hated it, but still she did it. What made it somehow worse was that she didn’t do it to deliberately annoy him, she just didn’t think. Or she didn’t think it mattered.

‘My name is Dave.’ He snarled between clenched teeth. The flower seller looked understanding.

‘I see, well, of course. You asked a question, I believe?’

He made it sound reproachful and David sat silent, staring at the ground in front of the bench. The silence stretched out and he caved in. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Well, as I was saying, what’s the one thing you’re most afraid of?’

The flower seller finally came out from behind his table and stood before him, nodding and smiling like he’d just sold him a car. David frowned. He’d never really thought about it, not properly. He didn’t like spiders all that much, but then, who did?

He didn’t like heights but he could handle them. He’d always found woolen jumpers a bit creepy, but so long as no one in the room was wearing one he was fine. There was something else.

He ignored it and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Nothing, really, I guess.’

The man raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. David stared back, determined not to crack first. He did though. ‘Okay, so maybe there is something.’

He looked around at the long empty expanse of street and the deserted river. He looked across at the London Eye, still spinning and entirely empty.

‘You already know, so why ask me?’

‘Just curious. It takes a certain courage to admit to one’s fears. Just as it does to live a lie.’

The flower seller turned away and wandered back to his stall. David raised a hand and dropped it again.

‘Fine, fine. I’m scared of dying alone.’

The flower seller stopped, hands clasped behind his back, and faced him, face sombre. ‘That’s right. And you always have been, haven’t you?’ A smile lit his features. ‘Well, what you’re feeling is an advanced case of pneumonia. Given the right medical treatment at this moment, you might live. It’s probably fifty fifty, if I’m honest.’

David sobbed, his chest rising and falling, his throat burning and filling with mucus. The flower seller nodded, smile still painted across his face. David loathed him. At that moment he thought he’d be happy to kill him, to beat him to death. But he could barely lift a hand.

‘Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to help out. Which is a shame, isn’t it?’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Why do they always assume I want something?’

The flower seller tutted and strode past David to the black railing above the Thames. David twisted his body so he could watch him. The man, or whatever he was, stared down into the water. David was about to speak when the flower seller nodded, turned to him and smiled.

‘Normally at this point, I’m tempted to say good bye and leave you to it. But alas that’s not the gig. I’ll never fill the quota beginning the week like that and you’re a good bet. Still, I’ve been wrong before. Perhaps a little time to think…’

He waved a hand and strolled back to his stall. David watched him all the way, but somewhere between the river and the flowers, he seemed to fade. One moment he was there, the next David could see the bridge through him and then he was gone.

The silence closed in.

The bench was cold against his trousers and his legs were stiffening up, so he climbed to his feet. He felt about a hundred, every bone in his neck cracking as he moved his head. He took slow steps toward his office but got only a few yards down the road before a coughing fit overtook him and he doubled up, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other resting on the road.

His eyes were watering when he straightened up and resumed walking. A movement to one side caught his eye, but when he turned he saw nothing. The sharp movement made the world spin and he stopped, setting his feet and holding his arms up. When it steadied, he walked on.

The office was empty, every desk just as it had been when he left for lunch. A few bore evidence of other people’s lunch, open foil and empty lunch boxes beside half-empty cups of coffee. They’d all just gone. Everyone had gone.

It hit him, properly, and he sank to his knees. His face pressed against the carpet and he sobbed. His shoulders heaved and he hated every second, but he couldn’t stop. He was alone, completely and utterly. He was dying too, but that seemed somehow far less important that the silence.

A thought struck him and he lunged toward the nearest desk and grabbed the phone. He lifted it to his ear and listened to silence. There was no dial tone, nothing. He typed the number for home, knowing it wouldn’t ring, but it did.

His heart leapt, sweat springing up on his forehead. What would he say? He listened, intent, eyes focused on nothing as he waited. And waited. She wasn’t home. Was she gone too? But the phone was ringing, surely that meant something? The line clicked and went dead. He slammed it into the cradle, picked it up and dialed again.

It rang and rang and he smashed it against the desk, again and again until the plastic shattered and fragments flew across the office. Once he’d killed it, he dropped to his knees and wailed.

The evening sun disappeared behind the Houses of Parliament. David stood on Waterloo bridge, staring down into the murky brown waters of the Thames. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white and shaking. He was dying. He was alone. He’d spent the last three hours creeping around the city.

He shouted for a time, screaming the name of everyone he’d ever known, just to fill the silence. But it made it worse. When he stopped, it closed in again, choking and blinding him. The silence was the worst part. He’d found a TV in a shop and turned it on, but the screen had resolutely refused to spring to life and he ended up putting his foot through it. Even the sound of the glass breaking had been muted and dull.

There was no way out of this. He didn’t know where he was, or what he’d done, but he would die here. So why not choose the way he went? He couldn’t die choking on his own innards, curled up in a corner somewhere. But the Thames was flowing fast and it would take him out to sea. With winter coming, it was cold enough to stun him when he hit and he’d barely know he was drowning.

He put a foot on the bottom rail and pushed himself up. If he’d known what was going to happen, he’d have stayed with Steph. He could still be there with her, where he should be. He choked back a sob and lifted one foot over the railing.

 

Next Installment Monday 9th June