WINDOW VIEWS - Murder as a Cultural Reference

Given time I thought, things are bound to pick up, they'll improve.  I was mistaken. And not just in my mind. It was a commonly held notion, that we would always be going someplace, heading somewhere, reaching for where ever more of more was to be found. It never remotely crossed anyone's mind that civilisation might go into reverse, and could do so rapidly. Decline was more than feasible. But to lose our entire grasp on economic progress and decent civility? Impulses became coarsened, natures turned unfiltered, the raw and the prejudicial began to rule. To permeate everything and everyone with an authoritarian stridency. I tried to tell myself that I would not, could not, respond in such a way. That such a regressive change may indeed be happening, but not to me. 

Yet I too harboured intolerant, murderous feelings. I thought badly of my neighbours without good cause, even loathed my closest oldest friends, was highly judgemental of family members. If anything, how I was, well this was way worse, simply because I affected a surface facade, that not an ounce of malign prejudice was there. Until of course it was, very much there. Fully formed and vicious. When I acted, I acted with an unearned impunity, a lack of remorse, brutal in intent. Too late now, as it was then, for regret. The worst cruelty was in my cold heartedness, indifferent to any opprobrium of my killing spree. For goodness sake, I took the time to chalk a white line around the slaughtered bodies of my victims. Circled, numbered and named the important clues. I meant it as a joke, a knowing reference to the cliches of detective fiction. But what does that tell you? Murder had become just a cultural reference for me. I wanted to take an active part not just in the crime, but in its discovery and the catching of the perpetrator, that was me.  I wanted to be in charge of how this whole storyline was framed and unfolded. From the puritanical vigilante finally purging society of its self evident delinquents and defective minds. To the inevitability of the detective catching and putting me away for a very long time. Posting photos on social media standing by corpses grinning with the pleasure and infamy of it all.

I ended up here, in this sparse miniscule room, with a sink, a bed, a bucket to shit and pee in. My creature comforts. The only view an obstructed one of the roofs of the prison block opposite, through a window striped with iron bars. I scrawl on the wall feelings of injustice, so defiant am I not to be ignored in my ignominy.  I wanted my public fame to continue.  Speedily removed from general society and my phone. I was incarcerated here in the hope of minimising copycat murders. When the riots kicked off, they didn't happen in the prison, but erupted in the ordinary streets and houses of suburbia. The days of middle class reserve and politely modulated dissent suddenly collapsed. There was a war on for food, heat, resources, general survival going on. Our prison guards left in a hurry, in order to barricade and defend their homes, never to return. Leaving myself, and a handful of others, boxes of Snickers bars and tap water to survive on, til both of those ran dry. One day, very soon, I'll go to sleep, never to reawaken. Maybe it's for the best they didn't leave the keys. For who knows what further atrocity a middle aged hedge fund manager might perpetrate, as it all comes tumbling down.

WINDOW VIEWS - Regrets After Breakfast

They hadn't had a full blown argument for a while, though goodness knows last nights wasn't different in form or content to any they'd had previously. Vicious vitriol, intentionally coruscating and unforgiving. Whenever Fred had felt challenged by Donald over some perceived gross insensitivity, he was never defensive, or calmly explained himself, or ever ever acknowledged there might be some truth in it. He went straight onto the offensive and for the high moral jugular. Pointing out Donald's own failings in this or that area, which were ten times worse than his of course. Didn't know how he put up with it, or with him. By this morning over breakfast, both of them were hardly brain focused enough even to remember the specifics of last nights kick off, let alone resume the argument again. A bit frazzled, too delicate even, from the turbid mix of drink and lack of sleep. Their interactions over breakfast were a bit huffy, though there was no opportunistic rudeness, which was unusual. 

This difference in tone began to prey on Fred's conscience from the moment his husband of twenty plus years had left for work. Donald, had had an air about him of sadness and hurt. He was sure there was something he'd wanted to express, but couldn't quite bring himself to say it. The words, 'See ya later' being lightly tossed into the air as he left. Fred believed he was supposed to infer a whole lot more significance into them. More than the bare words alone were capable of communicating. There was love there, stirred with soured melancholy. Everything just felt off. And now Fred was alone at home all day, doing household chores, planning the weekly food shop for later. Busily distracting his emotions from eating him up from the inside with his guilt. The moment he stopped being active, everything returned - what he'd said last night - Donald's departure this morning. They loomed over him like a demonic presence. Stood over the sink doing the breakfast washing up, he paused to pensively gaze out of the kitchen window. Something was wrong, really wrong. No  this wasn't Fred's usual insecurity and paranoia speaking. Donald was going to leave him, he was, wasn't he? 

He stared absent minded at the lawn sprinkler outside casually flicking water hither and thither. And in its regular twisting and reversals of direction he read the dynamic pattern of his relationship with Donald. They were both tired with how they were with each other, but too resigned to it, to do the hard work restoring the easy camaraderie they once had. Instead they continued their routine bound relationship, familiar, yet stoically buttressed. Until frustrations erupted via an argument yet again. Donald's look this morning spoke volumes on how weighed down with weariness he was. Fred dwelled on things heavily, often for far too long. Regretfully and unproductively Donald would usually remonstrate. So for the umpteenth time that day he found himself keening in his mind, blankly looking through that damned kitchen window. It was now four thirty, and holding his desperation at bay, he hoped to goodness he'd see Donald driving into the Close soon. The sound of the kitchen clock ticking bore down loudly on his hearing. Internally struggling to put a kind appreciative sentence together with which to greet his husband, the moment he arrived. He settled once again on - Sorry - just sorry. - Yeh - and a prolonged hug - that was usually enough.

WINDOW VIEWS - The Fourth Apartment

This was not his first, second nor third apartment, it was the fourth he'd inhabited in the last two years. Each time the windows had been shattered by explosions in the street, or had their entire frames blown out by 'rogue' drone activity. And once the window glass was broken to just a edging of shards, then snipers could then pick off with greater ease the merest shadow of the figures within. These were the type of ruins within which he'd incrementally lost all his close family. One by one, as the interior walls were strafed, the pain of it became carved into every pock marked wall and floor etched with blood. Staining the memory of his life in this sparsely furnished property, he'd barely had the time to consider home. Once the windows had their eyes blackened and the innards were opened up like a carcass, then the swirls of dust blew in and filled the space. What was there left of family, or for himself, to keep him here?

He thought he was battle hardened, but in reality coldly inert emotions had taken him over. Surviving by closing down more and more of his basic humanity. Would this be the last place he would ever say was his? He told himself he was fighting for territory, for the freedom to live how how he wished and where he wished. Once he had fought for his wife, his son and daughters, his parents, and his own future. But each time another one of them fell to the hail of a machine gun, or the pin point accuracy of a snipers shot, he became a further step removed from any honourable volition he'd had in continuing to fight. He picked off soldiers because he could, not because they endangered him, purely as an act of revenge. Rage fed him, blindly and implacably. He no longer liked who he was becoming.

The military incursions into rebel held areas around this apartment, were increasing in frequency and effectiveness. Very soon the rebel resistance could break completely and there'd be another mad messy scurrying to relocate and regroup in another misbegotten area of the city. Setting up camp there, until once again tanks and missiles would locate them. Inevitably this territory too would be fought tooth and nail over, and the self same sorry tale of resistance going unrewarded would proceed. How long would it be before there was nowhere else left to run to? He was exhausted by it, he dreamed of just walking away. But he didn't. Though he thought about leaving a lot. Making a new life, anywhere but here. Some country that didn't require constantly to be fought for. So stable that civil war was a history way beyond living memory. A place with a reputation for tolerance, kindness and peacefulness. A country willing to open its arms and welcome him in. Whilst peering through a bullet pitted window frame, engaging in a tit for tat gun battle, all of that dreaming felt improbable.

WINDOW VIEWS -- Memory & Instinct

Look, I've cleaned these windows umpteen times. My records show I first worked them in March 2018, and monthly since then. When your a window cleaner you have a unique view on any of the houses you clean, and the people you clean for. You're given permission to intrude and to stare into their personal space. You can't help but become nosy and intrigued about the folk you clean for. You rarely get to know them very well. Maybe just casual chit chat at the door whilst you sort out what they'd like you to do this visit, or when they pay you. Mostly you are just allowed to get on with it, almost as if you are not really there. Apart from when they're a work at home Mum or Dad, most of them are out when I call, anyway. They leave payment in an agreed place, or I send them a payment link. You do become a good observer in this job. What things are usually in a room. You notice new things appearing, things going missing. The changes in decor. You can't help taking an active human interest.

The Randall's seemed a nice young professional couple, living together when I first cleaned windows for them. Married, once they had the children, two boys, two years apart. Both of them worked in quite high paid jobs, something in finance is what I picked up. The interiors of their house had a bookish bohemian relaxed feel. Unobstructed windows, no blinds, no curtains. Reflections of a youth backpacking and a lot of travelling, post university. It was all there in the photos on the lounge walls, shelves and furniture. As the kids grew up it became inevitably more chaotically organised. And at first I thought nothing of it, because that's just how family homes are, they often are in a right royal mess. But I noticed that over quite a while it was getting progressively worse, the house had not just an unkempt, but an uncared for look. As if it never got cleaned up at all between the periods of dirty turbulent mess. Once the kids were school age, the house was left empty during the day. Everyone was out. No cars in the drive, gates closed. I just did my job and left.

A fortnight ago, I arrived to find both cars parked up in the drive. Odd in itself, as they were rarely there together when I visited. So I expected to see them around as I cleaned the windows. But I saw no one. All the windows not a human presence to be seen anywhere. One bedroom now had curtains closed during the day, which was puzzling. I assumed someone was home ill.  I did the usual cleaning round and moved on to my next client. Sending a payment link to her email address as before. But no payment was made. Usually they responded within a day. But nothing. I started to feel uneasy about it, so ended up popping round at the weekend just to check all was well. Surprised to find both cars still in the same position in the drive. Something even stranger was the state of the kitchen and lounge. No more of a mess than usual, it was exactly the same mess as before. Nothing had moved one centimetre since my last visit, everything left exactly as it was the last time. The dirty plates, half read magazines, cereal packets left open, everything unmoved. I got out my ladders, it was just the same on the second floor. The same bedroom had it's curtains closed. But there were now lots of flies battering themselves against the window. Once I saw that, that was when I phoned the police.

WINDOW VIEWS - As Though Viewed From Afar

The note unnerved him. A small brown unaddressed envelope on the hall matt, nothing particularly unique about it. Inside a sharply folded piece of paper, which when opened out revealed a simple sentence printed in pencil - 'That's a nice sandwich' - was all it said. It perplexed him. He hadn't eaten a sandwich at home in many a week. So what the heck does this mean? Who was this person? If they were peeping where were they peeping from? The precision of its execution indicated to him, the writer was male. The sentence began to feel more euphemistic, a nudge nudge innuendo. From an admirer then? An admirer / stalker? As he dwelt on it further questions arose. Hide it away in a drawer. Ignore it. Maybe whoever this is will go away, if he gave it no energy. If he received another one, then he'd go to the police, he assured himself.

Two days later, another small brown envelope, this time with his name boldly printed on it - BEN.  The same style of excessively neat folded paper, which when unfolded revealed the pencilled message - '
You don't know how much pleasure you're giving me Ben ' 

'Ah, you creep, wanking over me are you?'. he conjectured

They must live near. He stood to the side of the window, trying not to be seen peering at the houses and flats across the road. Couldn't see a bloody thing during the day. Night time little better. He talked with his best buddy Alastair,who was quite insistent  -
'For goodness sake just phone the police, before this gets completely out of hand',
'Its just, I think I should have an idea who this is, what if its some one I know?' '
'It is a good idea mate to put a stop to this, right now'

He ignored Alastair's advice, he usually did. Didn't phone the police. Didn't wish to acknowledge why either.  He got a kinky kick out of these notes. Excitedly hanging out for the next one. It felt a dangerous thing he was doing, he knew that. He wasn't the one in control of what happened here. Who was he dealing with? If this all got way out of whack, how could he put a stop to it? Another small brown envelope lay on the matt the next morning. The message today read -
'You should linger by the window more, with your top off. Do it, knowing I'll love it.'
He thought about the message all day while at work. It wasn't a very productive today. By the time he got home there was a frisson of erotic excitement. He was going to do this. Setting up the lamps, deciding the positioning of furniture, what he was going to do. Daring himself to do this, just to prove he could.

Barely had he closed the curtains and begun to dress himself, there was a loud banging on his flat door. 'Mr Swayne, Mr Benjamin Swayne could you come to the door please. We don't want to have to break it down.' 
Ben slowly pulled the bolts back, dropped the latch. By the moment he was finished and opened the door, he was surrounded by police officers, his hands cuffed behind his back. Ben was in a panic, in amongst the noise, rough jostling, his rights being read. He was innocent, in his mind he'd done nothing wrong, this was no one else's business. Not fully grasping why he'd been arrested, until he asked the police directly during his interview back at the station.
'Well, Benjamin, we've just witnessed you exposing yourself to everyone in the street below, haven't we? Plus, for the last few weeks we've been made aware that you've been posting lewd notes to gentlemen in your neighbourhood. Do you remember or acknowledge that this is what has been going on, Ben? Isn't this exactly what happened the last time?' 

It was as though this was happening to someone else, someone he did not know.

WINDOW VIEWS - The Old Fields

They'd decided to buy the house all those years ago, chiefly because it had a gorgeous view over the old field, with it's still visible creases of medieval ridge and furrow. Dorothy hated seeing what was happening to it now. She felt physically hurt by the rapid change. At her age, she never wanted to let go of anything. Having to let go of her husband had been hard enough. The grief lingering still. But that landscape seen from her house, had always been there. It gave her two things, it brought memories of Harry closer, and a feeling of intimacy with the countryside  Their cottage was idyllic, part of a pretty dormitory village. In reality it had long since become subsumed by the ever expanding suburbs of the town. This was now overwhelming her cottage and the old fields like a beastly juggernaut, taking this precious scenic view with it.

Harry? Well thank god he'd not lived to see this enormous building site erected, and the levelling out of the entire ancient field. Of course she'd protested. In her seventies, for the first time out with placards, organising marches, collecting signatures, submitting petitions. The remains of the village centre were Grade 2 listed, unfortunately her house and the old field fell just outside the conservation area. The force of her campaign being to get that area extended to include it, but to no avail. The really ironic kick in the shins was that what was now being built were luxury retirement flats.

Having lost that fight, she readjusted her priorities. Much as she didn't want to leave her lovely little cottage, and the downsizing would indeed be painful and prolonged, it had to be done. The cottage was put up for sale, had sold quicker than everyone, including her daughter had warned her because it was such a depressed market. She'd plucked up courage and viewed the show flat the first day it opened. All the new apartments were to have either a village vista, or one of the remaining fields beyond. She insisted on buying a flat on the ground floor, positioned in the same orientation as her cottage, facing away from it. When the apartments were finished, she was there ready to move in. 'Perhaps this will see me out' she said to herself quietly. Sitting in her armchair, describing aloud the changed view, the weather and the rolling landscape, to the vase of cremated ashes resting in her lap.

WINDOW VIEWS - The Self In Isolation

She had decided to stay at home a while back, of her own free will. It was just a standard preventative measure, in times of infection, to reduce contact. Little had then been known about the Mir-Th virus, other than the more obvious symptoms - sudden amusement, a slight chuckle fast accelerating into uproarious fits of giggling, similar to canned laughter. In the worst instances to the point of prostrate hysteria, where blood vessels could burst. If the latter went unchecked it could be life threatening. For Rita, an occasional inappropriate guffaw had been the earliest indication of the decay in her social inhibitors.

Where the Mir-Th virus had come from, no one yet understood. Essex had been mischievously suggested. Outbreaks had come out of the blue, but quite uniformly across the Home Counties. Not everyone saw the unbridled hilarity as being the problem it was. As the laughter was often directed towards the government, it appeared entirely justifiable. The silent curfew they subsequently imposed had seemed rather self serving, and face saving.  The BBC, as was then expected of them, self censored and took Michael MacIntyre off air as a precautionary measure. The media saw this as either too little, too late, or an easy but empty gesture. Because MacIntyre had ceased being actually funny a long long time ago.

Rita had taken to staring out the second floor bay window of her flat, with little sense of purpose. Since she'd put her self in isolation, it automatically became a regular habit to sit there contemplating, observing all the many eccentricities, contrived and otherwise, parading themselves outside in the street beneath. A world these days seemingly full to bursting with a lot of vain preening and self preoccupation. A rather willowy middle aged man swinging by in a hurry, caught her attention. Something in the character of his bearing, came across as po-faced, so consumed was he by superior derision for everyone surrounding him. This caused a slight featherish tickle of hilarity within her. It was beginning again.

Once self amusement was present, uproarious laughter was never far behind. Then there'd be melodramatic pointing and the crude gesticulations from her window, urging the other folk walking by to just look at the state of this man. Such out of control hilarity making everyone who saw it cringe with embarrassment. Since the appearance of the virus they'd be seen stepping slowly away from anything like this. Removing themselves to a considered safe distance. Rita's saving grace was that she was one floor up, and behind glass. Otherwise she'd probably have been arrested and incarcerated in a secure hospital ward by now.

Even when the Mir-Th restrictions were lifted, Rita chose to remain voluntarily confined to her flat, waiting for her virus symptoms to fully clear up. Only going out, to get her doctors note and hand it in at work. She continued to find everything, including the Mir-Th itself, just too unbearably hilarious. Her boss and work colleagues were concerned she might never get over it. There'd been broader questions about what to do with individuals who suffered from Prolonged Mir-Th. The muscles in her chest and throat were now so permanently damaged, rubbed raw and torn from the near constant laughter. Catching the virus had turned her lifestyle upside down. For Rita her flat, though a refuge, had now become a prison, a sealed shrine to it. She also frequently laughed at herself, but that was also part of the problem.

WINDOW VIEWS - The Unlocked Back Door

Roy sat by the heavy oak table heavily panting, his face glistened with sweat from all the frantic running. Maybe he'd bunker down here until the fracas outside died down. Lucky the backdoor of this house had been left unlocked. So he didn't have to add breaking and entering to his already extensive criminal record. He got up to peer from behind the closed curtains of the front room window. In the streets, he could see the smoke of a distant explosion, his car being torched probably. Whilst other, more likely stolen, cars were veering around the area erratically. Flashlights scanning down the hedgerows and ginnals. Young men his age ran along the middle of roads yelling and whelping like pack animals. It didn't look like they'd be giving up and going home anytime soon. If anything this was escalating into an uncontrollable rampage.

The backdoor suddenly slammed shut, as though a through draft had caught and angrily wanged it against the frame. Roy jumped. A bang, far too close, strung him out. He'd better go check that wasn't the owner of the house returning. No, no one around. Though the door appeared to now be locked. He went to check the front door, also firmly shut. Behind him a voice spoke - 'You don't want to leave do you, you've only just arrived, and I do so love male intruders'  Roy freaked,' What the fuck!, who, where are you?' Something brushed passed him. it felt vaguely feminine, he could smell a heavy musky rose perfume ' You seem to be in some sort of trouble, young, sweaty man' a cool breeze blew over him,  'maybe that will... dry you off.'

Roy had only one impulse, to get out. 'It's not that bad here, once you get to know me. The name's Rochelle. I think I'm going to really love having you around for company. Has anyone told you how cute you are?' Roy half felt a hand on his posterior, and then a passing brush of air briefly lifting his hair. 'Mmmm so soft, so gentle'. 'Get the fuck away from me' Roy flailed his arms. He had to find a way to extricate himself from here.  This must be just some elaborate hoax, surely. 'Oh no, this is no hoax... Roy, tell you what...Roy, maybe you should bang on my windows... Roy. Try to attract attention. Go on, do it for me.. Roy.' 'No, I won't, those guys are gonna kill me' 'Whose to say I won't, I think you should at least try a scream or two'. The curtains tore apart and bodily lifted he was flung hard against the window glass, making a creaking splintering sound. Though he banged and screamed as hard as he could. 'Please, please, guys, save me, for gods sake save me, I'll tell you where I hid the stuff I stole, I promise' From the distance the sound of police sirens were growing louder. Everyone was scarpering. No one noticed or heard a word.

WINDOW VIEWS - From The Other Side

The french windows in my room open wide onto an extensive back garden. The care home's lawn, shrubbery, wildlife and residents are all framed for me by these doors. I view all this from within my wheelchair. I end up looking out on this landscape for a huge part of the day. Putting a lot of effort into getting the maximum amount of interest and stimulation from it. I've taken to observing events in minute detail, from the changes in weather, the arrival and passing of seasons, to the tracks of birds and aeroplanes in flight, Then there are the smear trails of snails, the insects and spiders who slide or scamper across the glass. the scuttle of leaves. I've closely watched the working methods of the gardener, for instance, as he mows the lawn. He is quite impressive I must say, very neat and precise. Fascinating to see it all happen.  It's almost meditative. I would never have been that patient when I was his age. I couldn't wait to get such everyday manual tasks over and done with. Hurrying on to the next thing on my invisible to do list. 

On fine sunny days, I get rolled out to take my recreation al fresco. I sit in my wheelchair by a bench with members of my family or carers, but mostly  on my own. People are, understandably, reluctant to come and see me these days, it must be so unrewarding to visit, its distressing for them I expect. It is certainly distressing for me. They never see how I cry inwardly, to myself once they are gone.

I experienced a great upwelling of sadness as the nights drew in. When the patio doors needed to be closed to keep in the heat. As the last rays of summer sunlight vanish behind the poplar trees at the bottom of the garden. Left to gaze out at the looming gloom, until its absorbed into complete pitch black. At some point my Filipeno carer Doris will arrive - 'Mr Turner time to turn you around. Shall I turn the TV on? Do you want to watch anything tonight? She'll turn me around, looking directly into my eyes. Trying to gauge from the simplest expressive eye movement, my preference from a short list of programmes she rolls off. Since my accident I am, what my doctor casually refers to as 'a lock in', Moving my eyes, but nothing else. Mind alert as ever. Emotionally taught and frustrated, at not being able to vent it all out loud. 'No more fucking Pointless, Please! I don't really enjoy what I see on television, its so trite. Though it eats up the time I guess. I want to communicate what I most desire. But I feel effectively buried alive in my body.

However, the pitch dark evenings brought much more than I expected. More than a few fluttering moths trying to batter themselves to death on the patio windows. Familiar faces have begun to appear, glowing, hovering, emanating within the darkness. At first it was just my wife, but it expanded, within a matter of days, to a veritable parade of the good, bad and the ugly from my past life.  Relatives close and distant, just popping by to see how I am, I guess. I wonder really why they are coming. Does this mean something? 'Preparing me for death? What is their purpose? What is mine now? Though they do speak to me without speaking. I hear nothing, but can intuit what they mean. Mostly its just greetings and polite how are you's. My Mother visited yesterday. She was trying to communicate something to me, I couldn't quite fathom what. I felt quite a lot of emotional cross waves, heavy and mournful. When she retreated from view, I felt grief all over again. I spend all my time isolated, except for when these spirit faces arise. There are days when I hate Doris arriving. I want to scream - 'fuck off!' - loudly right in her face. But can't, obviously.

  

WINDOW VIEWS - Another Quiet Day

From the shop counter there was a clear view through the shop window out onto the street and down the hill in the direction of the central bus hub. You could tell when the buses arrived from the town suburbs and surrounding villages, because people would spill out, heading towards the main street like a particularly virulent plague. But 'towards the main street' meant that they would be heading away from the shop Restorative Moments. Aiming for the new retail park, with its tiny multi-plex cinema and studio theatre. This was part of the recently re-named Arts Quarter. 'I mean, what half arsed tiny market town has an Arts Quarter!' Gregory would mutter under his breath. Well, this one did, but why they didn't imagine including his shop was a frequent burning question. He blamed the town planners and the Councillors for a lack of vision. But it was the sheep like nature of human beings as shoppers, that angered him most. Allowing themselves to be herded and funneled towards an intended market without a second thought. Lemmings!

Gregory had been at work barely an hour, and was already working himself up into being cheesed off. No one had actually come into the store yet. He felt extremely uncomfortable with even the thought that this was going to be yet another quiet day. There had been a brief gaggle of people wandering passed the window. Just as quickly, and just as noisily, they moved on in cackles and fits of giggles at some in joke or other. If they stopped to view any of his stock on the outside tables it was with self-evident disinterest. Items were picked up, then discarded as if they were an exceptionally smelly sock. Another chap examined a piece of stock in such close forensic detail, as if to ascertain exactly how it had come into existence. Took photos of it on his phone. Now satisfied that he had found out enough to either make it for himself, or buy something identical or better online, he put the further shop soiled item back down. It was as if the whole purpose of Gregory's shop was as a three dimensional interactive catalogue display. Making it easier for folk to purchase with confidence online, having seen the thing you wanted and handled them in real life. 'Did no one buy on impulse any more?'

On quiet days Gregory didn't find it hard not to conjure semi- reasonable justifications for cultivating a resentful attitude. Resentfulness he understood perfectly well, but how easily that soured into disinterest he tended to miss. That disinterest made manifest in his demeanour, further deterred custom. It could, and was, becoming a vicious self perpetuating cycle. He was already referred to as Gregory the Grump, even by his own regular and devoted customers. There had come a point when his disinterest became endemic, he'd ceased acknowledging that it might be there. And once it became ensconced like a truly bad tempered and overweight pig, all was lost. A shop like his, could then enter its own death spiral so slowly and gently, that by the time an owner woke up to the now precipitous speedy nature of its decline, it was generally too late to avert catastrophe. 

Gregory's disinterest now lay like the dust on its shelves and stock had done - for quite some time. Potential customers could smell the neglect, the decay, the lack of interest, a mile off. In fact down the end of the road as you came out of the central bus hub. Understandably, rather than walk towards a rather unpleasant fetid atmosphere, most folk chose to walk away from it. Toawards the flashy vulgarity and artificial bon homie of the new retail park. Where people inhaled a pumped in perfume creating within them feelings of being loved and valued. With a complimentary squirt of cream and dusting of cinnamon on your cappuccino and piped muzak to boot, What was there not to like?

WINDOW VIEWS - What She Has Seen

Some said, she couldn't possibly have seen what she said she'd seen. Hers was a small bay window on the second floor, on an oblique corner plot, not looking directly out on to the street at all. So at an angle to Seaborne Terrace, at a further diagonal to No 5. How she could have seen more than the briefest shaft of a shadow? A figure seen only from out of the corner of her eye, was no figure at all. That was, for them at least, not good enough.

However, she knew what she'd seen was far more than a shadow. It was at twilight admittedly, so she understood why people would doubt what her vision was of this liminal manifestation.  But, she would not renounce or revise what she had seen either. That figure was suggestive to her of something touched with the divine. It did not feel benign though. She was scared of it, by what she was not sure at the time. Realising later that she'd drawn too close to what was truly sacred, frighteningly so. There was something in the fluttering dusky wing of it as it flashed across the road and vanished through the door of No 5. 

This changed her so profoundly. For days she had the sensation of herself glowing, in a golden aura type way. The next day crossing the road to lay flowers where she'd seen the charcoal black angel. She did that regularly, until a local TV journalist approached her to ask why. Before that interview was finished, her vision, her sanity and her past was being called into question. and found wanting. It felt, to her, that her experience was being taken away from her and publicly trashed. 

Everyone behaved towards her differently after that. Pubs went quiet, people crossed the road. Homeless folk appeared to understand, perhaps because they were treated in a similar manner, or they had seen it too. But over time she hid herself away more in her room, becoming more reclusive. Until no one saw her at all. Several weeks later the landlord called round to find the flat apparently uninhabited. With only a scorched silhouette mark on the sofa to prove anyone had ever been there.