peace and quiet

8/8/2019 Peace and Quiet

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Peace and quietStephen Quinn


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Friday. The word spoke slowly inside his head. He said it to himself a few

more times just to sense its happy flavour over again. With each repetition however

his mind focused with decreasing sharpness on the pleasure, it became increasingly

distracted by his environment and external stimuli.

The bus he was on was old. It had that smell a vehicle gets when a mass ofpeople have came and gone, leaving behind a tiny portion of themselves; skin

particles, sweat, stale breath, dirt. Some people believe thats what ghosts are

simply a little bit of someone left behind at a scene. Of course ghosts are usually left

when something traumatic happens and a lot, or all, of a persons energy is used up

and left behind at the scene. Murder for example.

On this bus nothing traumatic had happened, it was just the sheer numbers of

passengers, on and off, each leaving behind and contributing to some account of spirit

that gave this sense. The bus was old. The springs in the seats had lost their spring.

The fabric was threadbare in the expected places, the pattern dull and patchy,

embossed here and there with smooth, black dirt from a million hands. Even thedriver, visible in the scratched mirror at the front, looked old and weary.

He began to think about what he was actually going to do with his day and

weekend, the first hes had off in over a month. Quickly he decided, knowing he

already knew: Absolutely nothing. Well, maybe some peoples idea of nothing, he

was going to sit, and read. Not answer the phone, not answer the door, not turn on the

television to listen to the outside world, not call his friends, parents or girlfriend.

Nothing.

This line of thought was interrupted as the bus decelerated, old brakes

squealed, the chassis shuddered and the spring-less springs gave him no cushion. He

glanced at the stop and knew what he would see. Thirty or so teenagers in school

uniforms carrying sports bags containing muddy, sweaty kits. The two bus doors

peeled themselves apart and the noise entered first. Soon though the order lost

meaning as voices, noise, smell and temperature, increased and mingled.

Every Friday the same, the small pleasure of the end of the week, even with

working weekends, was eroded little by little. The cumulative affect was taking its toll

on him subconsciously, and almost imperceptibly. Almost.

If he stayed on the bus until his stop, he would have no choice but to endure.He pressed the stop bell and stood. Slowly he struggled and excused himself through

the crowd of children. Each one paid him as much attention as the next and the

previous. Schoolbags jostled and tripped him. Small impenetrable groups hampered

his advance to the front. Skirting around and occasionally forcing his way through to

half shouted abuse and stares of an indolent youth.

The bus driver, he realised, was staring at him also. Reflected by the mirror,

the image juddered and vibrated as the bus slowed. It was a stare perfected and

polished over many years, over many people. Unwavering, devoid of emotion, like a

shadow at night. He lurched the final steps, struggling to maintain his balance.

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The queue of people at the shelter began to board the bus as soon as the doors

opened. Once more he struggled through as best as possible, this time with no

excuses. He turned to stare irritably at the new passengers as the doors closed. His

reflection stared back at him, fractured and divided by the centre line of the two

halves of the door. The driver, his gaze now transfixed directly ahead, accelerated

away.

Alone now. He exhaled a breath, as if surfacing from depth.

The walk home was not far but the streets were busy. Traffic moved in fits and

starts and the pedestrians meandered blindly around one another. He inhaled and

began to move.

The weight in his bag felt good, light but firm. A bundle of paperwork, some

pens in the small front pocket, an empty lunch box gave volume to nothing, and,

snuggled, nestling like a sleeping dog lay a compacted story within its cover. Just

waiting for the key, to begin to unfold and expand. Just waiting to take him away,make him forget, to start again.

His eyes were downcast as he progressed, pleased to be outside and breathing

easier. Even the other people walking had stopped irritating at least a little. Maybe

this weekend will work out as planned he dared to think.

Henry!

Something inside him seized, like an overused but under-oiled cog it jarred

and threw his sensitive clock-work. His eyes fixed now, his feet still moving.

Henry! Hey!

No choice. He did his best looking around blindly expression, mixed with

his second best double-take. He couldnt tell if it looked sincere and spontaneous. He

couldnt even tell if she thought it looked sincere and spontaneous. He couldnt even

tell if she thought it looked sincere and spontaneous.

Marie! Hey, hows things?

Oh its so good to see you, I cant tell you the type of day Ive had.

He knew when she said that, that she most certainly could and would tell him

not only the sort of day shed had but also every minute, consciousness sapping, life

draining, soul-sucking iota of inconsequential shit that had gone on in yet another

worst day ever!

As he thought it, she said it. He smiled, suppressing everything else. She saw

his smile and took comfort from it. His bag grew heavier by the second. Before he

knew it her arm was slipped through his and he knew the weekend was lost.

Goddammit!

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He screamed inside his head as they slowly clicked and plodded their way in

the direction of his flat. The empty sound of his futile scream flared and died, like so

many others, leaving charred synapses and corrupted pathways in its wake.

The key turned too easily in its lock. He could feel the tumblers falling into

place, releasing the bolt. Gone.

She had barely ceased speaking the entire journey, breathing was coincided

with natural rhythms, without thought he responded with the appropriate positive or

negative inflection.

Uh-huh.

No.

He was used to this and sometimes played a game, swapping answers at

inappropriate times. The response was always the same: no response. What the hell

was he doing? Why couldnt she see he wanted peace? He wanted quiet. Today. Nogames.

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He was halfway to the bathroom when he hesitated. Above her chatter his

mind still moved, still turned. Reaching into his bag he blindly grasped the book. The

thickness and density felt good, like an orthopaedic mattress, almost to firm, but

necessary.

In the last sanctuary now, in his own flat. How many retreats today? How

many defeats? Sitting, prone, he tentatively opened the almost entirely white cover,

his fingers touching the roughly textured cover, reminding him of cardboard as a

child. Eyes moving slowly he began to savour each word, rolling them around his

mind occasionally allowing himself to silently mouth. Feeling his lips peel apart, his

mouth forming the shape of their sound, tongue polishing their syllables.

The movement in his peripheral vision alarmed his flow. Ancient instincts of

not seeing, but detecting movement fed him the truth. No escape. The door handle

moved downwards as if in a horror film only at full speed. No pause button here, no

hiding behind a cushion, or better the couch. Nothing.

Henry?

A long, long pause.

Is everything alright? Youve been in there a long time.

No more periphery. Seated weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Toes curled,

gripping the floor mat and deforming it. Slowly and with calculation he turned his

head to the left, cocking it slightly. Staring straight at the door now, his focus sharp.

Slicing through the air impacting on the door, cleaving it in two effortlessly,

penetrating her flesh without pause or delay, racing onwards through the old suite,through the glass doors of the balcony, cutting vertically and leaving not a single

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wayward crack. His focus refracted through this line, prism-like, throwing light onto

the darkened balcony and below.

The balcony

Im fine.

She had began to cook by the time he came out; the immediate and harsh rattle

of pans and pots, the clatter of plates and cutlery, the machine gun staccato of slicing

and dicing, the increasing pitch of the kettles steam forcing its way through the

narrow neck and mushrooming into a misty cloud. She loved it. He didnt speak.

Are you sure youre ok? Youre acting kinda weird.

The machine gun stopped shooting for a few seconds, her finger poised over

the trigger.

Weird?

Another long pause. A strange look in her eyes. An even stranger one in his.

Her trigger finger was itchy, hostilities resumed as quickly as they had ceased. Like

cease-fires around the world it had been tentative, conditional and temporary. Unlike

other cease-fires though, only one side knew there was a war, raging.

He sat down on the old suite with his back to the kitchen. The book, clutched

in his hand, rested by his side. He could feel his pulse at the tip of each finger and

thumb, throbbing slowly and methodically through the surface. He opened it and

looked blankly at the pages, not reading but waiting and savouring the wait until he

knew he would read uninterrupted. Amidst the sounds of war he sat, a thin, manic

smile set on his face. Like a shell-shocked soldier he sat, wanting to flee but knowing

his duty. After all, this was war.

Turning the pages occasionally, killing time, he knew soon he would stand and

move out onto the balcony; the balcony with the low railing marking out its limit, the

balcony with the occasional spot of slippery algae he had been meaning to clean since

he had moved in almost a year ago. One year. The time stood in his head as a long,

narrow corridor with no doors along its cramped sides. A single door stood at the

beginning, closed and locked. It was impossible to return that way. In fact the corridorwas so cramped it was difficult to even turn your head and look back, even if you

wanted to. Ahead was a second door. It too was closed, but not locked. Through its

keyhole shone a near perfect white light, the only light in the corridor. As he moved

forwards his shoulders constantly brushed the bare walls and he could tell his

knuckles were raw and lightly bleeding from many abrasions with the walls. Here and

there along their sides were splotches of caked, dark blood. His long shadow cast

from the keyhole light, stretched the entire length of the hallway. His heads shadow

was cast on the faraway locked door creeping slowly downwards. He knew that when

he reached the door in front, his shadow would be completely detached. Falling

straight out behind him and, with the source of the light directly in front of him,

would appear huge.

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The light from the moon rising outside illuminated his hand as he reached for

and slid open the balcony door. Her voice reached him from the kitchen but he did not

respond. The two steps from door to railing felt perfect. Left. Right. His hands

gripped the cold metal as he stood, alone with the moon.

Laying the table neatly she cast her eyes outwards. He must have had a badday at work she thought. Hed been having a lot of bad days at work though. A nice

meal, a few cold beers, watch the football highlights, without complaint from her she

vowed, and he might cheer up. They had the whole weekend together, their first in

months. A late night followed by a lazy morning in bed will be just what he needs.

Smiling a small determined smile she walked out onto the balcony. She placed her

hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. She began to speak as he placed his

opposite hand on top of hers and squeezed back. Squeezed back tightly. Too tightly.

The railing impacted her stomach and the world flipped. A snatched view of

an upside down flat, a questioning and pained glance at his impassionate moonlit face.

Her hands flailed, grasping air, already knowing it was too late. The fear increasedwith acceleration, until both abruptly stopped. It was dark. The moon, still rising, shed

no second hand light into the shadows of the street. Slowly a pool formed, a black

pool, growing agonisingly, slowly, inching its way into the cracks and crevices of the

street.

He exhaled.

Looking downwards he had followed her journey. He had seen the start. He

had known the end. The sound was muted as he recalled it now. She hadnt even

screamed as she fell, as she passed into the shadows and almost disappeared. The end

itself? A dull thud as of a large paper sack of potatoes impacting and tearing open. He

had felt nothing at all.

Sitting reading now: a different book. He stared around his small room. His

small cell. A thin fixed smile on his face. Returning to his book now, eyes moving

slowly from left to right and down. From page to page. Peace and quiet,

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peace and quiet

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