hiding and coughing.
He found Alison’s parents house in a leafy, sloping avenue. Like everything else here apart from the tramps, it looked shinier and cleaner and also, if this is the right word for a mock Tudor semi, crueller. Sparks rang the doorbell. It chimed with the clarity of a freshly-sharpened razor’s edge. Good doorbell , thought Sparks, impressed.
The door opened, and a woman appeared. She was wan-faced, tired, wearing a greasy apron and had too many little plasters on the ends of her scarred and scabbed hands.
“Are you Mrs Irvine?” asked Sparks.
The woman sighed, rolled her eyes and closed the door. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a slap and the door was opened again, this time by a completely different woman. This woman was well-dressed, deeply clean, expensive-looking from her uneconomical hair to her glittering shoes. Sparks thought she was the most glamorous-looking woman he had ever seen, and it took him quite a few seconds to realise that she was Alison’s mother. This is because Alison’s mother was, as far as Sparks could remember, an old-school Guardian-reading mother who wore bifocals and cardigans and frowned at people who didn’t know about the minimum wage. This woman looked like she not only didn’t know about the minimum wage but, if you mentioned it, would make you eat it.
“I am Mrs Irvine,” she said. “You have ten seconds to state your business before I call the police.”
“Good morning,” said Sparks. “I was wondering…”
“Five seconds,” said Mrs Irvine. “I told you.”
“I haven’t said anything yet,” said Sparks. “I was…”
“One second,” said Mrs Irvine. She held up a very small telephone and pressed a key. “Hello, police?”
“I know your daughter Alison!” shouted Sparks.
Mrs Irvine looked at him.
“We do not,” she said, “have a daughter. We considered it, a long time ago, but decided we could better spend our money on drugs and vases. I understand this is why there’s something of a decline in the population, but I couldn’t care less. Now I am calling the police.”
She pressed the key. Almost immediately the air was solid with screaming.
“That was quick,” said Sparks. He ran away, again.
Sparks made his way down back streets, past tramps, vagrants and people who were just dying in alleyways, up impressive Olympic boulevards that in his world were just streets, and with the aid of the rudest black cab driver he would ever meet, found Tisdall Road again. He ran into Conswardine House, and found flat 88. The door was still open. Sparks went in. A very large naked man was sitting on the floor, and as the large man gaped at Sparks, two women dressed as air hostesses came in. They too gaped at Sparks as he ran past them into the bedroom.
Sparks locked the bedroom door. As thumping ensued outside, he took a quick look around at the most unpleasant place he had been in his life.
“Goodbye, cruel world,” said Sparks, and sat down on the bed.
OW!
OW!
DOESN’T GET BETTER WHEN YOU GET USED TO IT THEN!
OWWW!
Sparks woke up. Judging by the smell he was in the Flat 88 in his world. He opened his eyes. A small, amazingly filthy boy was staring at him. Sparks stood up. He felt awful, and slowly tried to stand up.
“Are you my dad?” the boy said.
Sparks stopped trying to stand up. “No,” he said, “No, I’m not.”
“Good,” said the boy. “You’re a loony.”
Sparks went home.
Jeff and Duncan were playing cards when the alarm went off.
“The alarm’s gone off,” said Duncan.
“I know,” said Jeff. “I can hear it. In fact, it’s so loud I couldn’t hear you saying ‘the alarm’s gone off’. But I knew that’s what you were going to say because that’s what you always say when the alarm goes off.”
“What did you say?” said Duncan.
Jeff went over and turned off the alarm.
“Nothing,” said Jeff. “Anyway, I knew the alarm was going to go off.”
“No you didn’t,”
He found Alison’s parents house in a leafy, sloping avenue. Like everything else here apart from the tramps, it looked shinier and cleaner and also, if this is the right word for a mock Tudor semi, crueller. Sparks rang the doorbell. It chimed with the clarity of a freshly-sharpened razor’s edge. Good doorbell , thought Sparks, impressed.
The door opened, and a woman appeared. She was wan-faced, tired, wearing a greasy apron and had too many little plasters on the ends of her scarred and scabbed hands.
“Are you Mrs Irvine?” asked Sparks.
The woman sighed, rolled her eyes and closed the door. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a slap and the door was opened again, this time by a completely different woman. This woman was well-dressed, deeply clean, expensive-looking from her uneconomical hair to her glittering shoes. Sparks thought she was the most glamorous-looking woman he had ever seen, and it took him quite a few seconds to realise that she was Alison’s mother. This is because Alison’s mother was, as far as Sparks could remember, an old-school Guardian-reading mother who wore bifocals and cardigans and frowned at people who didn’t know about the minimum wage. This woman looked like she not only didn’t know about the minimum wage but, if you mentioned it, would make you eat it.
“I am Mrs Irvine,” she said. “You have ten seconds to state your business before I call the police.”
“Good morning,” said Sparks. “I was wondering…”
“Five seconds,” said Mrs Irvine. “I told you.”
“I haven’t said anything yet,” said Sparks. “I was…”
“One second,” said Mrs Irvine. She held up a very small telephone and pressed a key. “Hello, police?”
“I know your daughter Alison!” shouted Sparks.
Mrs Irvine looked at him.
“We do not,” she said, “have a daughter. We considered it, a long time ago, but decided we could better spend our money on drugs and vases. I understand this is why there’s something of a decline in the population, but I couldn’t care less. Now I am calling the police.”
She pressed the key. Almost immediately the air was solid with screaming.
“That was quick,” said Sparks. He ran away, again.
Sparks made his way down back streets, past tramps, vagrants and people who were just dying in alleyways, up impressive Olympic boulevards that in his world were just streets, and with the aid of the rudest black cab driver he would ever meet, found Tisdall Road again. He ran into Conswardine House, and found flat 88. The door was still open. Sparks went in. A very large naked man was sitting on the floor, and as the large man gaped at Sparks, two women dressed as air hostesses came in. They too gaped at Sparks as he ran past them into the bedroom.
Sparks locked the bedroom door. As thumping ensued outside, he took a quick look around at the most unpleasant place he had been in his life.
“Goodbye, cruel world,” said Sparks, and sat down on the bed.
OW!
OW!
DOESN’T GET BETTER WHEN YOU GET USED TO IT THEN!
OWWW!
Sparks woke up. Judging by the smell he was in the Flat 88 in his world. He opened his eyes. A small, amazingly filthy boy was staring at him. Sparks stood up. He felt awful, and slowly tried to stand up.
“Are you my dad?” the boy said.
Sparks stopped trying to stand up. “No,” he said, “No, I’m not.”
“Good,” said the boy. “You’re a loony.”
Sparks went home.
Jeff and Duncan were playing cards when the alarm went off.
“The alarm’s gone off,” said Duncan.
“I know,” said Jeff. “I can hear it. In fact, it’s so loud I couldn’t hear you saying ‘the alarm’s gone off’. But I knew that’s what you were going to say because that’s what you always say when the alarm goes off.”
“What did you say?” said Duncan.
Jeff went over and turned off the alarm.
“Nothing,” said Jeff. “Anyway, I knew the alarm was going to go off.”
“No you didn’t,”
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