Part One is here

Tuesday – Bayleigh Part One

They were just flowers. He was there every day and every day she slowed as she walked past and took deep breaths and carried the smell with her all the way to the shop. Every day she thought, ‘I’ll buy some today.’ And every day she walked past without buying them.

But every month when she checked the bank statement she was happy she’d resisted. Because every month a little more money went into the account and she moved one step closer.

Today was particularly difficult. There were roses, the most beautiful red roses, that smelled like a holiday and were the colour of romance and belonged on a table in a tiny cafe in Paris. She would sit and smell them, her dyed-blond hair tied up atop her head. Her too-thin lips would be made full through the arty application of lipstick that matched the petals and brought out the green in her eyes. A gorgeous man in tight jeans would part them and lean through and murmur how much he loved her tiny snub nose as their lips pressed together.

She shivered, turned her eyes from the stall and breathed deep. The morning traffic was thin on the ground when she opened the shop and went in. The alarm beeped a good morning and she scampered to the back and punched in the code. She imagined, as she did at least once a week, that she’d just prevented the explosion of a number of bombs placed all over London. With her simple action, she averted a terrible crisis.

The front door binged and Ali bustled in, the scent of freshly-baked bread coming with him.

‘Mornin’ Bay, you’re late today?’

The question was almost buried beneath the normal jovial tone. Almost, but not quite. She blushed, knowing full well why he asked. ‘Bed was comfy this morning.’

‘Don’t know how a big bed like that can be comfortable. You must get cold.’

If he hadn’t shared that bed a few times in the last month, it would be harassment. As it was, it sent butterflies through her stomach and made her cheeks even hotter. ‘I get hot when I sleep, normally throw the covers off altogether.’

She turned as he thumped the first crate down on the counter. He strolled down the shop. The sides of his hands were still covered in flour and he smelled like his bread. She took a deep breath, the smell of roses replaced with the scent of fantasies made real.

‘We can make it hotter, if you like.’

She giggled and walked past him, brushing against him just enough for her to shiver and slow. He would grab her and spin her around, his flour leaving marks on her arms. He’d push her back against the glass cabinets and force his tongue into her mouth. He didn’t though.

Which was a good thing because the door binged again and Layla walked in, giving them both a cheery ‘morning’ before disappearing into the back. Somehow, Bayleigh’s cheeks grew hotter still and she rushed behind the counter, putting a safe distance between them.

‘Well, you know, offer’s there. Let me get the rest.’

Ali strolled from the shop and Layla appeared from the back, apron on and hair tied up. ‘You two still shagging, then?’

Bayleigh gasped and frowned at her. Layla, completely oblivious, opened the till and began to sort the money from the safe. ‘Not that I’m prying or nothing, just think you could do a lot worse. And, you know, he knows about Jeff and everything.’

He did and that was worth more than his kindness or his strong arms and soft hands. He didn’t know about the bank account though. No one knew about that and no one would, not until it was too late.

Layla was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Had she asked a question? Not really, but she’d still want an answer. Bayleigh blinked, then twined her finger in her hair and blushed, shrugging. ‘Yeah, maybe. I dunno. He’s nice and all, but—’

‘But what? What you waiting for? Bay, you know I love you, but you ain’t gonna do much better, not with… well, yeah, you know.’

Bayleigh nodded. It was all true. She set about opening the shop and Layla took the hint. The lights went on and soon the place was filled with people. The coffee machine set up the symphony, accompanied by the sounds of workers and the steady thumps of the fridge door and the clink of the knife. Lunches were made and sold and eaten or taken away and the day went on and before she’d taken a breath, it was lunch time.

The rush ended and she slipped out of the apron and headed for some fresh air. She strolled down Embankment, mind drifting. There’d been a couple in this morning, tourists choosing the independent sandwich shop instead of Macdonalds. They’d been arguing over whether to go to the Planetarium or Madame Tussauds and as always, Bayleigh had been dragged back.

Dad had taken her to the Planetarium, not long after mum died. They’d sat and stared up at the lights and he’d reached out and taken her hand. It had been quiet in there, but even so it had taken her a few moments to work out he was crying. She’d never heard him cry before and it still haunted her.

He sounded broken, like he was supposed to be crying properly, but every time he sobbed something clicked and he stopped for a second and started again. They sat in the darkness for ages and all she was aware of was the sound of her father falling apart. When they left he apologised and said he’d take her again, and the thought of ever going back in there made her burst into tears.

Funny how something so simple can be so vivid after twenty years. He cried a lot now. She preferred it to the screaming. And the laughter. The laughter was the worst. Twenty years ago he’d only sounded broken. Now he was. Layla was right. Ali had met dad and knew what she lived with and was alright with it. He was better than alright. He’d even read to him once or twice.

She smiled, blinking away the tears. He couldn’t read for toffee, but dad didn’t mind. It was the sound of a voice, she thought, more than what it was saying.

She heaved a huge sigh, shoulders rising and falling. She stopped, put her hands on the black iron railings, and took a few deeps breaths. Nothing like fresh Thames air to clean the mind. She smiled again and shook her head.

A different smell caught her nostrils and she was dragged from the railing. She ambled over, pretending she had some say in the matter and found herself standing before the flowers. They were beautiful, so beautiful and she unfocused her eyes until all she could see was colour.

A throat being cleared made her jump.

‘Good morning, madam, can I interest you in anything particular?’

She jumped and put a hand to her throat, self-conscious. He sounded like a politician. His eyes were dark and seemed to smile at her. In fact, all of him smiled at her and it felt real.

‘Thanks, no, just looking. You always have such beautiful flowers.’

‘Well thank you, that’s very kind of you to say so. You have to get there first, that’s all.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The wholesaler. You have to get to the wholesaler before anyone else and you get the best bunches. Are you sure you won’t buy something, they’d be lovely in your shop.’

‘My shop? How do you know…’

She trailed off as he pointed one neatly manicured finger at her t-shirt. ‘The Sandwich Bay’ was surrounded by smiling faces. She’d designed them herself and was as proud now as she’d been five years ago. She blushed and smiled weakly.

‘I like the design. It fits very well in London, doesn’t it, so inclusive.’

She blushed again and examined her feet.

‘Tell you what. Let me see if I can’t find you a bargain—’

‘Oh no, I can’t, really, I don’t have the money.’

‘I’m sure I can find something in your budget. How about the roses?’

Next Installment Monday 14th June

Part One is here

Monday – David Part Three

David fell off the railing and landed on his arse on the concrete. He lay back and screamed until his throat gave out. The sky above was clear and the stars peeked through the light pollution, mocking him with their silent regard. Maybe everyone was out there. Maybe they were all on the moon, looking down at him and pointing and laughing.

He rolled onto his side and put a hand over his face. The floor was cold. He slept.

He woke once in the night and the sound of the Thames rushing below the bridge was so loud it made him jump. It faded just as quickly as he realised there was nothing else. He clammed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with the heel of his palm and waited. The waiting lasted forever and every second was filled with the silence but eventually, he went back to sleep.

He woke to sunlight creeping over the OXO tower and prying into his eyes. It seemed to welcome him back, as though he’d stood on the edge of death and been pulled away at the last moment.

He stood, feeling better than he had in days. Then the pain hit and the silence hit and he crumpled to the floor. He was pathetic. He couldn’t even end it when the end was coming anyway. Why was he here?

It was the first time he’d asked himself that and it surprised him enough that he stopped shaking and sat up. The movement sent pain through his shoulder, spasms running up and down his back. He could barely move his arm. His throat was clogged and filled with gunk and he hawked and spat over the edge.

Why was he here? The flower seller had given him roses for his wife and he’d given them to Steph. That was bloody stupid. He was in hell all because some weirdo got on his high horse. The word God floated through his mind and he snorted. Weirdo with some serious mojo was nearer the truth. Actually, was there much of a difference?

He wasn’t in hell. Hell didn’t exist, although he decided the guy who invented the whole fire and brimstone thing was a bit lacking in imagination. This was some kind of altered reality. Maybe there were drugs in the roses, something he smelled that made him think this was all happening. Or maybe he was strapped in, Matrix-style, to some giant computer. It was fake either way.

But he felt sick, there was no denying that. They could do anything with computers these days though. He sniffed and pulled himself up the railings. It all felt so real. Well, if there was no one here, there was no one to stop him doing anything he liked. There was an Aston Martin garage in Kensington.

With his first smile in twenty four hours, David made his slow way over the bridge.

Doing ninety down Oxford Street was as much fun as he’d imagined. As was going on a shopping spree around Harrods and raiding the ice cream parlour. But every time he paused, the silence came flooding back like the tide running up the beach.

After a couple of days of living like a Sultan, it began to wear thin. There was no TV, no one to cook anything, no one to do anything with or to. And the silence kept coming.

After a week, he took to talking to himself, loudly commentating everything he did. But his throat was hoarse and he soon ran out of words. He was supposed to be dying, but the sickness had frozen where it was, leaving him washed out and snotty all the time.

Everything had frozen. His beard stopped growing and his hunger soon went away. And after a couple of weeks, he found himself back before the flower stall. The flowers were still in bloom, bright and beautiful and the only things that smelled of anything anymore. He sucked in the aromas, clinging to that one small sign of his previous life.

His mind wandered. His thoughts became simple, images that meant nothing. He spoke out loud now and then, but the words no longer made sense. They were just sounds, with no one to hear them. His sleep dried up as well. He did everything he could to exhaust himself, but he’d fall into a light sleep that would last only a couple of hours at most before he woke.

The flower stall became his refuge and it was just as he was trying to remember why, that someone appeared. In the dim recesses of his memory, in the part that still worked, he recognised the man as the flower seller. But he saw much more now. He saw the light surrounding him and the darkness hiding behind it.

‘Hello, David, how are you?’

He stared blankly at the man, waiting for this David person to reply. When no one did, he thought that perhaps he was David. How was he? He shook his head, mouth hanging open and the man smiled.

‘Have you learned?’

‘Learned?’

‘Why are you here, David?’

‘Roses. Something, there were roses.’

The man sighed and shook his head. ‘Perhaps I left it too long. No, it shouldn’t have happened this quickly.’

He leaned closer, pursing up his lips. Finally he spoke. ‘When you wake, examine your life. And if you are in doubt, remember that you can always come back to this place.’

The flower seller took careful steps backward to stand beside his stall. There he froze and the scene faded until David stared at the blackness and wondered why he was suddenly so warm. He reached out a hand and pressed it against warm flesh.

The person sighed and rolled over, dislodging his hand and his eyes flew open. The first thing he saw was the bedside clock, the numbers 5:32 glowing gently in the darkness. Almost time for work. He blinked, expecting to drift back off. But he felt oddly awake and stretched, reveling in not feeling crappy at half five in the morning.

Amber rolled over again and he stared at her face as it came into view. How had he ever loved her? Just the sight of her grated and made him want to leap from the bed. With a grunt he rolled back to stare at the alarm clock. There was something on top of it and he reached out a hand.

He hissed as his fingers closed around something sharp. He jerked them away, then took it more gently and lifted it to his face. It was a rose, a single red rose and it smelled wonderful. It made him think of Steph. He reached for his phone then looked again at the time. She wouldn’t thank him. Maybe he’d text her on the way to the station.

As he stepped into the shower, he wondered where the rose had come from. A voice inside told him he knew exactly where it had come from, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. Dammit, the shower was bloody freezing. When he stepped out of the house, he didn’t notice the silence. It was only when he reached the train station and found it dark and empty, that it came flooding back.

Interlude

That was a shame. He’d expected more. Some people just weren’t ready to change. Now that sounded like he was making excuses. It was another in Purg though and they all had to be accounted for. Which meant more paperwork.

Was he losing his touch? The last three had all gone to the dogs and he thought his choices were perfect. Maybe he should listen to Seph and do what he suggested. Take the easy ones, get your quota, and get ambitious at the end of the month when it wasn’t so important.

But that didn’t work. What was the point if they weren’t on the edge? And there didn’t seem to be any easy ones. There were easier and harder, but no shoe-ins. That wasn’t how Seph told it though. To listen to him over a beer, he was swimming in easy subjects, lining them up and knocking them down.

Luke picked up his list and stared at it. Were they getting the same list? Several names faded in the minute he looked at it, so they were working from the same sheets. Was he losing his touch?

He swung around in his chair and gazed out the back of his chamber. The Flights were quiet. Most of them were still at work and the rest down at the Dome. He peered over the edge and stared down through the stars, past the thousands of chambers to the Dome. He could go for a beer.

His eyes were heavy though. Keeping David in Purg for that long without the Engine was hard work. He’d rest and start again tomorrow.

Bayleigh’s story begins Thursday 12th June

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

The flower seller strolled from the station and out onto Embankment. The sun was out today and he hunched his shoulders. It wouldn’t do any good, but his hands were full. Eyes scrunched almost shut, he found his usual spot at the bottom of the stairs and spread out his wares.

On first inspection, he was a very normal man. His shaved head contained a pair of deep set, dark brown eyes, a nose that could kindly be described as large and a thin mouth. His lips were pressed together as though in disapproval. He was average build and average height and his physique was buried beneath a large bomber jacket that kept out the morning wind racing up the Thames.

However, looking a little longer and more carefully, one might begin to see things that weren’t quite so average. His skin moved as though ants crawled just below the surface. With every move his body made, it shifted and sighed, like sand spread by the wind. His eyes weren’t actually dark brown. They were flecked, tiny yellow sparks that winked in and out like stars. Catch him at the right time, in the right light, and his eyes were golden.

But the most striking thing about him was the presence of two growths. They were small, small enough to go unnoticed by most, pressing against the skin on either side of his head, just above the ears. But one would have to look close and scrutinise. And there was something about him that discouraged scrutiny.

The city was quietest at this time. The early commuters marched, slouched and crept from the tube, eyes invariably glued to phones or the floor. So it was that no one saw the table emerge from his jacket, or the flowers that followed it, bunch after bunch from a seemingly-empty rain coat. Within minutes the table was heaving with a spread of the most beautiful flowers, perfectly in bloom and wrapped in delicate white paper.

No water from the tubs in which they stood marred the paper. Not one petal was out of place. The flower seller picked and poked until he was happy, then settled his back against the rail at the bottom of the stairs and let out a long breath.

The herd of commuters thickened and bustled and ignored. They barely saw the roses and chrysanthemums, the tulips and lilies. Had you watched the flower seller, you might have seen his eyes follow first one then another. They lingered here and there, tracing the steps of a women in a grey suit before jumping to a jogger clad in green sweat pants and t-shirt.

Had you looked even closer, you might have seen his eyes despair again and again. You might have seen the smile that seemed permanently fixed to his face droop now and then. Then again, you might have just seen a flower seller, waiting patiently for his first customer of the day.

He would only have one. He only ever had one. Today, it would be David.

Monday – David Part One

The only thing worse than the shower being crap was the freezing cold bathroom he had to step into once he was done. He didn’t have to put up with this at Steph’s. She had the most amazing shower and towels thick enough to bury yourself in.

Today, he would do it today. It wouldn’t be that difficult, not really. They’d barely spoken in the last few months, it wouldn’t come as a surprise. He toweled himself as quickly as he could, shivering as he did the one-legged dance of drying. Content he wasn’t about to freeze to death, he wrapped himself tight in his robe and sneaked into his study.

Amber was still asleep. She used to get up and have breakfast with him. They’d drink tea and talk about the day ahead and he’d leave with a kiss and sometimes a pat on the bottom and his heart would carry him on wings to the station. His lip curled as he unlocked the top drawer of his desk.

The envelope lay where he’d left it, the solicitors name printed neatly in one corner. Every day he didn’t press ahead with this meant another day of coming home to misery and another day of not knowing whether he’d see Steph. Why didn’t he just do it?

He’d take the papers to work. He could check them one more time and have them ready when he arrived home. They could sit at the table they bought together from Cargo, giggling about spending more money on a table than their first car. And he’d explain that this was it and she didn’t have to put up with him anymore and all she had to do was sign, sign and sign.

He slipped the papers into his bag and headed downstairs. Cornflakes. Bloody cornflakes. Was it so difficult to learn how little he liked cornflakes? They’d been married eight years and still she bought cornflakes. He hissed, shoved them down his throat as fast as possible and headed for the station.

He sent Steph a text on the way.

‘Hey sexy, what you wearing?’

Moment’s later, his phone buzzed. It was like she was waiting for him.

‘Granny pants and pajamas. I am the queen of hotness x’

‘Why does that image give me a hard-on?’

‘Because you’re a weirdo. And because I’ve got that quarter cup bra you got me on underneath. You coming over today?’

He stopped and adjusted his trousers, coughing and glancing about. He went to work early enough that the streets clung to the half-dark of dawn and entertained the last stragglers from an all-night fog party. She would be in bed, tousled and gorgeous. They made a good couple. He was tallish, short hair, sharp nose and easy smile. She was shorter, long black hair and pouty. Everything Amber wasn’t.

He kept walking, staring at his phone. He was busy today. Too busy really. His fingers moved before his brain told them no.

‘Are you free at lunch?’

‘Can be. What time?’

David’s heart leapt into his mouth and started thumping. He swallowed, forcing it back down so it punched his rib cage, demanding release.

‘Half twelve?’

‘My place xxx.’

He thought about skipping and tapping his heels together. It would most likely land him on his arse, so he settled for a sort of embarrassed, middle-class English fist raise. The mental image of tennis players celebrating dampened the heat rushing around his body. He was shivering again by the time he reached the station.

The journey was long enough for his fantasies to run their course and when the train rolled into Paddington he had to stay sitting and shuffle about, picturing Andy Murray until he could stand up.

The day went horribly slow. Despite his busyness, every time he glanced at the clock the hands had barely moved. But every minute brought him closer to Steph and he clung to that until he finally decided he could lunch break without anyone frowning at him and he was out the door.

His mind was filled the crappy advert that had taken up most of his morning. ‘Who doesn’t want a better life?’

It was wrong. It sucked and invoked entirely the wrong imagery but the rest of the copy was so strong and only worked with that headline. So he’d gone round it and round it and now he couldn’t think of anything else. The Thames smelled today, salty with a hint of rotting food, but the sun was out and the wind brisk enough to throw in some roasted chestnut and candyfloss from the south bank to balance it out.

The flower guy was there again. When was the last time he bought flowers for Amber? He flushed, then smiled as he glanced over the Thames. Just over there, tucked behind the Imax was Steph’s flat. He slowed as he reached the stall. He’d never bought Steph flowers either. He never knew what to buy. Roses were so cliched, but then, flowers were cliched, weren’t they?

He shrugged. How the hell was he supposed to know? He picked up his pace but the smell assaulted him as it always did and his footsteps slowed. The scent was amazing, overwhelming, and his nose wrinkled up. A bunch of roses thrust out at him from the table, the colour of wine in candlelight and open just enough to make him wonder what lay within.

Which was daft, because he knew what lay within. But he still longed to find out and found himself standing before them, entranced by the soft petals and pungent smell.

‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’

It wasn’t the voice he expected. The guy had a shaved head and wore this over-sized coat that seemed de-rigeur for anyone selling flowers or gig tickets. His voice sounded like he’d just stepped off of University Challenge.

‘Yeah, they’re quite nice. How much?’

He wasn’t going to buy roses, surely not? And red ones at that.

‘I’m sure we can come to a price that’s acceptable for both of us. Let me do you a dozen, and we’ll call it ten pounds, sound reasonable?’

‘A tenner? I could get them in Tesco for five quid.’

‘But is ten pounds very much to spend to see the smile on your wife’s face?’

‘My wife’s…’

The flower seller was nodding at his wedding ring. Oh yeah. ‘Yeah, well, no I suppose not.’

‘Splendid.’

The flower seller busied himself with selecting the roses and placing them neatly, one by one, on a clean sheet of paper and plastic. David stared, entranced despite himself by the smooth movements. The guy had done this before.

‘Is that twelve or thirteen?’

The flower seller gave him a smile that made the bit of skin just behind his ears itch.

‘Well spotted. You’ve heard of a baker’s dozen, no doubt. This is much the same. You can take them all home to your wife and the thirteenth will ensure she gets her twelve, should one be damaged on the way. Or you can always give it to someone you meet, someone who looks like they might need it…’

His hands were still now, his eyes fixed on David’s. ‘Uh, yeah, right.’

The itching wasn’t going away and he pulled out his wallet, suddenly keen to be somewhere else. He checked his watch. Fifty minutes of lunch left. They’d have time. They might be able to do it twice, but he should eat something as well.

‘There you are sir. I hope she enjoys them.’

He handed over the ten pound note, not really looking at the flowers. His eyes drifted past the man and over the river. It would be another ten minutes before he got there.

‘Thank you sir, have a lovely day.’

‘Yeah, cheers, you too.’

He stomped away as fast as he could. He cradled the roses like they were precious, which at ten quid, they were. In six minutes he was standing, panting, outside Steph’s. He took a few deep breaths and checked his hair in the reflection of the door, then pressed the buzzer.

‘Took your time.’

The door clicked and he ran in and straight into the lift. As he waited for the doors to open he looked at the roses. What was he supposed to do with these? He saw his ring glinting against the paper and yanked it off, stuffing it into his pocket and flushing. He’d never forgotten before. Normally it was off before he left the office.

He looked back at the roses and the flower seller’s face flashed through his mind. He blinked. He felt bad enough already, why should some random posh weirdo make him feel worse? Steph would appreciate them and they’d only wilt by the time he got them home.

The door opened and he almost ran down the hallway to the door that was already open. She wasn’t lying about the bra. The pajamas though, were nowhere to be seen. He got as far as ‘I bought you roses’, before she took them from his hands and replaced them with her hips.

The roses were still lying on the table as he hastily pulled his jacket on and headed for the door.

‘Shouldn’t you put them in water or something?’

She nodded, pouting at him between thick strands of long dark hair. She lay spread-eagled on the bed, cat-like, her skin sheened in sweat. He would tell Amber tonight. He had to. He pulled the door closed and wandered back to the office, adjusting his trousers as he went. He should have had a shower.

He lifted his fingers to his nose, catching the scent of her and smiling as he stepped onto the bridge. It was oddly quiet, the lunch time traffic absent for once. He nodded in relief. He’d get back to the office far quicker now. By the time he was halfway over, there wasn’t another person in sight.

When he reached the top of the stairs down to Embankment tube, he paused and frowned. He hadn’t heard a train the entire way over and now, peering down at the street, he saw not one car all the way up the river. Where the hell was everyone?

He took a few steps down and stopped. There was no one on the river either. No boats and none of the ferries were moving. He thought about shouting ‘hello’ and blushed, laughing at himself. He opened his mouth to do exactly that when a voice stopped him.

‘Welcome, David. Thank you for visiting me. Tell me, what is your greatest fear?’

His mouth closed with a snap. He knew the answer to that. He turned, scrambled up the steps and ran back across the river.