How long am I here for? Oh who’s to say, boy. We’ve got a cottage on the island, so I suppose it’s really up to me how long I’m here for. Where? It’s out on the spur, right out where the lane starts bolting back and forth like a silly little rabbit. Near the end. It takes an age to drive out there and it knackers your suspension and in fact… it’s a lot easier if you just walk it, if you don’t mind the distance. I still don’t really mind it even in my age. That must be why I’m such a sturdy old goat to this day.
Max dropped bread in the toaster without looking. He read the jagged little letter again from the beginning. It arrived at some point last night, shoved through the letterbox with no envelope, a loose sheaf of note paper ripped from a spiral spine. It had been two days since the final blow up.
Pieces of aeroplane sprayed across the water in front of them, but only Arlo saw the distinct shapes of people striking the sea’s surface. The beach was the thin fringe of a wide bay. At their backs, the drastic slope of the mountains dove into the ground. The town, just four streets deep, was squeezed tight between the mountainside and the sandy beach. The double blades of beach and town pinched off at the end of the bay: a headland the shape of a fist. It punched the passenger jet out of the sky, those still lounging on the beach at dusk gazed upon the innards. In the local tongue the name of the peak was “the boxer”. The name of the town was simply “beach”, which gave all but the least inquisitive holidaymakers the sense they were being brushed off and given bare essentials to navigate only to the spots where the locals could tolerate them.
The emcee stood off to the side of the stage in darkness and in a rented tux. Standing in amongst the clutter of the backstage area he swallowed a choke as he tried to clear his throat quietly. Reaching into his jacket pocket he felt the thick stack of note cards there and shut his eyes for a moment, allowing the cool calm of their presence to wash through him. He turned to his side and gestured to the drama student stooped over the lighting board. He removed the note cards from his pocket, gripped them lightly in his hand, and climbed the steps at the side of the stage as the heat and glare of the lights rose all around him.
If they’d given me a nose I think I’d have smelled the alcohol on your breath yesterday morning. I should give myself some credit; they didn’t give me the best ears but I could still hear that slight slurring in your speech. I could hear you being a little more abrupt with the rest of the crew. I could hear you being a little less clear with the tower in Prague. We’ve been up here together enough times that I can spot the tiny differences. I doubt even the crew would have been able to tell just by listening to your voice through those tinny microphones. They probably wound up smelling it on your breath, unless you were smart about it.
Tonight, Kwame would clean the altar. He walked to the front of the chapel. He methodically clicked each in a row of switches and light soaked the altar. Standing next to the altar in the bright lights, Kwame couldn’t make out the first row of pews. His breathing slowed there in the warmth. He stood next to the altar and allowed his arms to hang by his sides.
The very end of his middle fingertip brushed on the cotton tablecloth. He stood six feet and half an inch tall. Each time he measured himself he hoped that the downward force of age had compressed his spine a little to round him out to six foot – a more perfect stature. So far, the half inch had stubbornly withstood time. For a month he walked heavy-footed in the hopes that the force of each footfall would shorten him an invisible fraction of a inch until he had moulded his body successfully. He imagined a moustached architect measuring his proportions with his thumb held sideways and one eye squeezed shut, tutting and walking away.