I heard the bombs as they fell across the city, and I heard them stop long before the all clear sounded. Lying in bed, I ignored everything, and tried to sleep. The first disturbance came from the radio crackling back to life.
“Normal service resumes… Cytharizat cantico, dulcis Philomena, flore rident vario …”
I groaned, and rolled over, but the opera music was quiet enough to pull me back down into sleep. I dozed again.
The second disturbance was the bell of the front door ringing. I jerked awake, and groaned again. Visitors so soon after the all clear? It could only be one person.
Sure enough, when I called up the video for the doorstep on the screen next to my bed, there was that familiar face, smiling into the camera. With a sigh I buzzed the door open and activated the intercom.
“Get yourself a drink. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“No rush.” He replied, before disappearing from the camera’s view.
Now I was awake, I realised the sound from the radio was filled with static – the sound was much worse than before the bombs. A transmitter must be down.
“Omnia sol temperat, purus et subtilis, novo mundo reserat…” I turned Orff down and sat up. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, I examined myself. Could be worse, I thought. Could be dead.
There was no need to get dressed, I decided – my night clothes and a dressing gown would be fine for my late-night visitor. But my hair was a mess. I must have been tossing and turning in bed.
Eventually, I made it downstairs, hair tied back. I hadn’t brushed it – I couldn’t be bothered.
“You must have sprinted to get here this quickly.” I called, peering into the kitchen to see where he was. The room was empty.
“Don’t be daft.” His voice drifted out to me from the living room. “I’ve been out for ages. You know I don’t wait for the all clear.”
“You’re crazy.” I told him, pushing the living room door open and seeing him standing there.
“You look awful.” He told me. “Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Then here.” He pushed his glass into my hand, and headed to pour another. From the looks of the liquid, it was whisky.
“I don’t need a drink.” I told him tiredly. “I need sleep.”
“The bombs keeping you up?” He asked me, fresh drink in hand.
“Not that you’d understand what that means.” The whisky burned in my throat as I sipped, pushing back the weariness. “Worrying about getting blown up is just for us lesser folk.”
He laughed at that, and knocked back his whiskey.
“Now that’s not fair.” He told me, pouring himself another drink. Glass in hand, he walked over to me. “I do worry about you getting blown up. You’d be safer out on the street with me.”
“Not really.” I replied, sceptical. “My house is bomb-proof.”
“As bomb-proof as the one over the road?” He laughed again, a nasty edge creeping in to his voice. “These houses are held together with spit and prayers. A good sneeze would knock them over.”
“The people over the road were having structural work done to the house when it was hit. They messed with it – that’s why it didn’t protect them.”
“Bullshit.” He took a gulp of whiskey. “This whole neighbourhood was thrown together at the start of the war. It went up too quickly – nothing works like it should.”
“The houses either side were fine.”
“Luck. Do you want to depend on luck during the next raid?” He moved closer, shifting his glass into his left hand, and wrapping his right about my waist. “One of these days, those bombs will land right on top of you. I’m not digging your body out of the wreckage.”
“I’m not asking you to.” I pushed him away, and turned to stare out of the window. In the distance, plumes of smoke were billowing. My mind added in the screams that were filtered out by the sound-proofing of the house.
I felt the heat of a body on my back, and the chill of breath passing my ear, but he didn’t try pulling me towards him again.
“That could have been you.” He muttered, seeing what I was looking at.
“Alright, Darryl, thank you.” I snapped, not turning to look at him.
“What don’t you like about it?” He asked. “The thought that you’re wrong, or the thought that I’m right?”
I didn’t answer, although I knew it was a bit of both. I shouldn’t have let him in, I thought.
“Or maybe you stay here because you want your house to be hit. Commit suicide the slow way.”
And maybe that was true as well. I didn’t dwell on it.
“Get out, Darryl.”
“Not until you deny it.”
“Deny what?”
“That you want to die here.” There was silence. “If you won’t deny it, I won’t leave you alone, because you’re clearly not in your right mind.”
“What’s to deny?” I turned then, angry. “If a bomb hits me, there’s nothing left to worry about, is there? If it doesn’t, then I’ll live for another day.”
“Catherine…”
“What? I’m not denying anything. And I won’t deny that I’ve thought about it, but that doesn’t mean I’m suicidal.” I downed the rest of my whiskey. “Everyone thinks about it.”
“And that’s what friends are for. To take your mind off it. That’s what gets everyone else through.”
“I don’t need ‘getting through’.” My glass made a heavy clunk as I set it on the table. “I told you, I’m not suicidal. I’m fine.” I walked passed him, towards the hallway, but he grabbed my arm and held me back.
“You’re not fine.”
“Let go of me.”
To my surprise, he did, but only long enough to set his glass down as well. Once both his hands were free, he grabbed my waist and pulled me towards him once more. I grappled with his fingers, trying to prise them off me.
“Come on Catherine. Don’t lie to me. You know I worry about you.”
“I don’t need worrying about, either.”
“Tough.” His grip was firm – he wasn’t hurting me, but I could not move his hands. I gave up.
“I’m tired, Darryl. You woke me up. I want to go to bed.”
“In a minute.” He took advantage of the end of my struggles to move one hand around to my back. “I didn’t just come here to steal your whiskey, you know.”
“What else did you come to steal?” I thought about that quickly. “Tell me, don’t show me.”
“I didn’t come for that, either.” He muttered, bending his face closer to mine. “Although the thought wasn’t entirely absent from my mind.”
“Get a grip, Darryl.”
“Well, then.” He chuckled and lifted his head. The flow of air made me realise how warm I was getting. “Nandi and Ike are throwing a housewarming party at the weekend. I was speaking to them just before the sirens started, and we got cut off mid-conversation, but I said I’d come round and ask you. Apparently they’ve tried to call, but you haven’t answered.”
“I haven’t had any calls.” I told him. It hadn’t escaped my notice that his hand on my back was moving slowly downwards. “I was out all of yesterday, though. We had a power cut at some point – well, the timer on my alarm clock was flashing, so I assume we had. It probably erased all my messages.”
“That’s convenient.” Darryl said.
“I’ve got no reason to ignore Nandi and Ike. I like them.” Very deliberately, I reached round and pulled his hand from my backside.
“You used to like me.” He reminded me, stepping back and collecting his whiskey again.
“I’ll call Nandi and let her know about the party.”
Darryl stared at me silently, swilling his drink around in its glass. After a moment, he grunted in a non-committal way, and gulped the rest of the whiskey.
“Alright.” He put the empty glass down. “I guess I’ll be going, then. I’ll see myself out.”
It might have helped if he had been angry. As it was, he merely looked sad, and slightly concerned, as he walked passed me. I didn’t follow him to the door.
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