Every five minutes a bird mimicking
an alarm clock calls. Every five
minutes he turns over, lifts his
arm over the empty body space
and turns off the alarm that is no
longer there. He remembers it is the bird
and tries to return to sleep before it is too
late. Before he is awake and has to confront
his memories. At first he is successful and
he sleeps dreamless sleeps. But as the sun
brightens behind the thin curtains, sleep
becomes harder and he wakes.
Awake he knows he is alone in this bed.
Awake he knows he is alone in this room.
Awake he knows he is alone in the house.
Awake he knows he is alone in this world.
Awake he cannot pretend she is here. Awake
he cannot stop thinking.
On his bedside table is his mobile. He
leans over and grabs it. He doesn’t know
the number, doesn’t need to. It is speed
dial number two. One was already taken by
voicemail. He dials, but hangs up before it
connects. With the phone against his ear
he falls towards sleep, thoughts and pain
drifting, but the alarm clock bird calls. It
meshes in his head for a moment with the
first time he heard it.
She sat on his bed, unpacking her
overnight bag, and he lay next to her making
his best come to bed eyes. The small white
alarm clock in her hand made him raise an
eyebrow, ruining his face. “What’s that?”
“My alarm.” “Whoa there. Bit fast isn’t it.” “I
need to get up in the morning and you don’t
have one. Don’t worry I’m not moving in.”
And he leaned over to kiss the space
between her jeans and her top as she twisted
towards the plug socket. He was kissing her
lower back when the loud dot dot dash of a
beep filled the room. It jolts him. Awake is
too many things to him but the bird at least
has stopped. The mobile is by his head and
he rings again. He lets it connect. It rings.
“Hi”. It is too hard to hear her voice and
he cuts the call. He rolls over, to her side,
and pushes his face deep into the pillow to
suck out any trace of her smell that remains.
Something like it comes up, between the
dust and the plastic, and he breathes in
as deeply as he can. He smells her sweat.
And he remembers that she said she didn’t
like him doing that. Didn’t like the way he
would nuzzle into her armpits, lick them,
sniff them, attempt to capture her smell for
when she wasn’t there. Later though, when
she did move in, she admitted that it wasn’t
that she didn’t like it, it was just that it was
something she’d never experienced before,
someone who felt like that.
Tears stream through closed eyes and
the alarm clock bird sings but he cannot
sleep. He rolls back over and picks up his
phone. He rings and it rings. “Hi, this is Sif,”
“and Gary,” “We’re not in at the moment,”
“Or if we are we’re busy,” “So leave ...”
The tears turn into sobs and the bed
rocks with him. He throws all he can into the
crying, all his energy. She only heard him cry
once, and never like this. He wears himself
out and he falls asleep. He heard her come
in and rushed to the bathroom. He didn’t
want her to see him like this.
“I’m back. Where are you?”
He didn’t shout back immediately
because his voice would give him away.
“Up, upstairs.” He heard her climb the stairs
and check the bedroom and then the study.
She knocked on the bathroom door and it
swung open. He turned away from her. She
knew immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ll think I’m
silly.” He dabbed
his eyes with his
shirt. “Tell me.”“We
got relegated.” And
she laughed but
caught herself.
“Shit. Darling.
Come here.”
And she held
him and kissed
him and caressed
him and undressed him into the shower. He
wishes that the bird would give up its pursuit
of its imaginary mate. It has been doomed
to failure from the start of its courtship, but
even more so now. He doesn’t get up to shoo
it away, he just waits and thinks about her
voice. It stops and so he rings.
“Hi, this is Sif,” “and Gary,” “we’re not in
at the moment,”“or if we are we’re busy,”
“so leave us a message and we’ll get back
to you.”
The answerphone clicks twice and he has
to leave a message; he should have hung up
earlier but it is too late now. It beeps. He
takes a breath. “It’s me. I just wanted to hear
your voice.”
He gets up and goes to the window.
He opens the curtains and watches as the
startled bird flies away. He puts his dressing
gown on, puts the mobile in its pocket and
goes downstairs. He scoops the pile of
mail from off the mat and adds it to the pile
already teetering on the small hallway table.
He knows he should look through it, and he
tells himself he will. Later. He walks through
to the kitchen. The blind hasn’t been pulled
down, and light assaults him from every
refracted angle not covered with discarded
crockery, empty bottles or takeaway cartons.
He squints and the room becomes palatable.
He knows his way between the kettle and
the sink but he trips on a stray carton and
water splashes over the floor and his feet.
The kitchen hasn’t always been this messy,
and he can still hear the alarm clock bird
down here.
She inspected his kitchen, as he tried to
find the unchipped mug. The work surfaces
were empty and clean, though in the fruit
bowl the apples were wrinkled and the tall
glass spaghetti holder was empty.
“You don’t cook much do you?”“I try.”
She laughed and ran a finger over a
hob. She raised it at him and he realised her
hands were long and slender. “Dust.” “So I
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don’t use the hobs much. It doesn’t mean I
don’t cook.” “You’re male.” “And?” “And
young, and earning, and so I guess you
probably get take aways or eat out.” “I can
cook though.” “I never said you couldn’t.
You can cook for me on our next date.”
She smiled at him and he wondered what
it would be like to kiss her. But the kettle
rattled to a click and he lost the thought.
Crystalline scum floats at the top of his
coffee. It is tepid because he didn’t sling
out an Old Brew. The sink is clogged and
smelling, but the coffee is strong. He is
running low though and has long run out of
milk. The alarm clock bird calls again and
he moves through to the front of the house.
He cannot hear it from the darkened front
room, just the low hum of the main road in
the middle distance. He sits in the old sofa,
takes the mobile out of his gown pocket and
drinks in large gulps. There are three other
cups around his ankles. He wonders why he
phones as he dials again.
“Hi, this is Sif,” “and Gary,” “we’re not
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