simple rush of pleasure driving such a car induced.
He pulled up in the empty lot of the supermarket. It was quiet, just a few families trailing shopping trolleys across the tarmac. He noted the jealous glance of a middle-aged shopper with howling kids as he slid past, a glimmering shark among the tuna of family hatchbacks.
It was late summer now, the leaves fringed with brown and the sky a bowl of blue. An odd feeling of freedom made him feel like taking the car for a spin before heading home. Rick wouldn’t mind: he was probably already back in bed.
Glenn gunned the car up Pentonville Road, heading for Hampstead with the roof open to the late morning breeze, music cranked up loud. The roads were quiet, and he sped along leafy avenues and through red-brick council estates, the changing moods of London flitting past. The car smelled of leather, Carolina Hererra aftershave and a trace of cannabis.
He stopped parked in Primrose Hill, near cafes just filling up with Sunday brunchers. He walked up to the emerald heath and looked down on the vista of London: he could make out the smoked glass tower where Rick was no doubt slumbering again. Glenn smiled: it looked so different to the grey, rainswept landscape he had inhabited months before.
He had a coffee and a sandwich in one of the street cafes, paid for by the small change from Rick's hall table. A modest extravagance, but all he needed on such a beautiful day.
The apartment was silent when he returned. He loaded the dishwasher, swabbed the counters with a cloth and slumped on the couch with the Sunday papers. He was soon asleep.
It was half-dark when he awoke, the orange glow of the city staining the ceiling of the apartment. The clock said 7:15pm. He flicked on the television and watched a documentary about house renovations. It was the time of evening when he was prey to easy boredom, when Rick was out and he was alone with nothing to do. He checked his email. No messages again. He paced the twilit apartment, walked into Rick’s room and put on the light. He immediately mumbled an apology when he saw his flat mate was still crashed out on his bed. He went and drew himself a bath, undressing and wrapping himself in a white towel.
Afterwards, he could not explain how he had known something was wrong. Only that he was sure something was. Hot water gushed from the tap as he crept back and knocked at his friend’s door.
“Rick?” he said. “Rick, you awake?” No answer. He walked in and gently turned the body over on the bed.
“Oh shit,” he said. It was as eloquent a eulogy as the dead trader was ever likely to get. Glenn stumbled out the bedroom and stood in the hall. Tears trickled down his cheeks and he knew they weren’t for Rick. He was too wretched to cry for his friend. No, these were pools of self-pity, borne of the knowledge that he was alone again, that this sanctuary was gone for good. He reeled to the sofa, blind with a sniveling, infantile despair.
Glenn lay inert a long time, as the water in the bath cooled and the semi-darkness of the city night eventually congealed into grey dawn. He didn’t rush to call an ambulance: it was clear that Rick was dead, or at least that was what he kept telling himself. His face had been rigid and white, as alien as something in cold cuts counter.
Dawn brought him to himself. Glenn was relieved to find he was, after all, sad for this man he had known since childhood. Not a crippling sadness, he admitted: he had felt sadder about the passing of childhood pets, but sad enough to make himself feel less self-centered.
Of course, the question now was, what the hell was he going to do?
He had until seven, when alarms sprang into life and the city rousted itself, before he had to call an ambulance. That phone call would cut the umbilical that had kept him safe and warm in Rick’s drug-fueled world, high above the cares of the metropolis.
He weighed his options: another wet autumn, then winter, bearing down. No
He pulled up in the empty lot of the supermarket. It was quiet, just a few families trailing shopping trolleys across the tarmac. He noted the jealous glance of a middle-aged shopper with howling kids as he slid past, a glimmering shark among the tuna of family hatchbacks.
It was late summer now, the leaves fringed with brown and the sky a bowl of blue. An odd feeling of freedom made him feel like taking the car for a spin before heading home. Rick wouldn’t mind: he was probably already back in bed.
Glenn gunned the car up Pentonville Road, heading for Hampstead with the roof open to the late morning breeze, music cranked up loud. The roads were quiet, and he sped along leafy avenues and through red-brick council estates, the changing moods of London flitting past. The car smelled of leather, Carolina Hererra aftershave and a trace of cannabis.
He stopped parked in Primrose Hill, near cafes just filling up with Sunday brunchers. He walked up to the emerald heath and looked down on the vista of London: he could make out the smoked glass tower where Rick was no doubt slumbering again. Glenn smiled: it looked so different to the grey, rainswept landscape he had inhabited months before.
He had a coffee and a sandwich in one of the street cafes, paid for by the small change from Rick's hall table. A modest extravagance, but all he needed on such a beautiful day.
The apartment was silent when he returned. He loaded the dishwasher, swabbed the counters with a cloth and slumped on the couch with the Sunday papers. He was soon asleep.
It was half-dark when he awoke, the orange glow of the city staining the ceiling of the apartment. The clock said 7:15pm. He flicked on the television and watched a documentary about house renovations. It was the time of evening when he was prey to easy boredom, when Rick was out and he was alone with nothing to do. He checked his email. No messages again. He paced the twilit apartment, walked into Rick’s room and put on the light. He immediately mumbled an apology when he saw his flat mate was still crashed out on his bed. He went and drew himself a bath, undressing and wrapping himself in a white towel.
Afterwards, he could not explain how he had known something was wrong. Only that he was sure something was. Hot water gushed from the tap as he crept back and knocked at his friend’s door.
“Rick?” he said. “Rick, you awake?” No answer. He walked in and gently turned the body over on the bed.
“Oh shit,” he said. It was as eloquent a eulogy as the dead trader was ever likely to get. Glenn stumbled out the bedroom and stood in the hall. Tears trickled down his cheeks and he knew they weren’t for Rick. He was too wretched to cry for his friend. No, these were pools of self-pity, borne of the knowledge that he was alone again, that this sanctuary was gone for good. He reeled to the sofa, blind with a sniveling, infantile despair.
Glenn lay inert a long time, as the water in the bath cooled and the semi-darkness of the city night eventually congealed into grey dawn. He didn’t rush to call an ambulance: it was clear that Rick was dead, or at least that was what he kept telling himself. His face had been rigid and white, as alien as something in cold cuts counter.
Dawn brought him to himself. Glenn was relieved to find he was, after all, sad for this man he had known since childhood. Not a crippling sadness, he admitted: he had felt sadder about the passing of childhood pets, but sad enough to make himself feel less self-centered.
Of course, the question now was, what the hell was he going to do?
He had until seven, when alarms sprang into life and the city rousted itself, before he had to call an ambulance. That phone call would cut the umbilical that had kept him safe and warm in Rick’s drug-fueled world, high above the cares of the metropolis.
He weighed his options: another wet autumn, then winter, bearing down. No
Similar Books
