Christian Yorke

Windsor blearily grabbed at the day as Flight squelched down the Long Walk cursing his ambition. He had jogged as far as Swan Hill before coughing up a lung and turning back sightlessly towards the castle, and home. He used the back door to avoid the misery of a stray neighbour. His cap rebounded off the ceiling and settled near the bin area during his hearty warm down. Drenched Asics produced catherine wheel spray as they thumped into the microwave. Flight was comforted by the fact that his toes had been bleeding heavily and bright red contrasted with white cotton. A Drome already occupied his mouth when his world was upended by a knock at the door.

Flight hurled himself into reception room three for invisibility, but the resolute bangs persisted. He balled his fists and shook his arms making sounds like an engine. Every muscle tensed with the fit and sweat and rain ran down his face.

The fifth volley finally outwitted him. Flight thrashed a foot at his sofa, then stormed at the noise and flung open the front door.

“Morning Flight,” said Gabriel from under a striped brolly. He seemed to flinch as he asked, “You been eating properly? You look peculiar.” 

“Gabriel,” said Flight uncomfortably. His bloodied sock undermined his cool, but he fought back resourcefully with, “it’s not a great time. I’ve got some paperwork to tackle, you know what it’s like. Tax things. Maybe we can catch up some other time. I’ve got a lot on my plate. Broken lightbulbs to correct and a troublesome door to mend.”

Gabriel stared at his old friend and said gently over the wind, “I know, it’s never ending isn’t it. Don’t be a homeowner I say. Full time bloody job. I’ll tell you what though, if you can put the chores to one side for a few minutes I really could do with a word. And it’s no good shaking your head at me, I’ve come a long way to see you and I’ll stand here until you let me in. Out of this bloody rain. Now come on Flight, stand aside you scary man.”

“You’ll have to shift the plates,” said Flight, moments later, as he perched on the arm of the Balzac. He spied a Drome under a vodka bottle and sparked her up.

Despite great care Gabriel failed to prevent a beer bottle from swallow diving off the crooked porcelain pillar as he shifted the remnants of four days fine dining off the sofa.

“Chuck them over there,” ordered Flight over the apology, flicking his hand at a wall like a ping-pong back hand

Gabriel approached a ground-zero of blackening pulp, bottles, plates and furring food. Flight’s head rocked impatiently across his shoulders as Gabriel stamped out a level section and positioned the plates. Rain crackled on the dead newspapers through the hole in the window above.

“Don’t tell me you’ve upset your cleaner again.”

“She’s having a few weeks off. Her spaniel has given birth to a basket full of spaniels, so what was I to do? I’m only human.” This recent stab at humanity had provoked a nasty conflict with big Lechsinska. The waxy shrew had taken issue with the constant flow of breakages and filth that she was required to correct, and absconded tearfully on her high horse. Flight was still waiting hopelessly for her to come back and save him. In the interim his happy home was rotting.

“Right you are, let’s hope she’s back soon. You getting that fixed then?” asked Gabriel thumbing at the broken pane.

“Man’s coming round tomorrow,” replied Flight to the fireplace. He flicked ash inaccurately, close to a bloated ash catcher.

“Jolly good,” said Gabriel through misty breath, now surveying the decomposition from the leather sofa. “Anyway, how’ve you been keeping? Busy?” 

“I, my friend, old friend, have never been better,” said Flight holding his head. Nonchalantly, with a bony click, he pulled his right leg up so that his ankle rested on his left knee. His baggy sock hung from his toes like a scarlet teardrop.

“Not seen you since that excitement at The Two Twigs. Roadblock’s on the mend at last,” explained Gabriel. “Edmund should feel ashamed for starting that punch up.”

“Edmund?” queried Flight to himself. “But it was me…”

“I don’t follow…”

“Me Gabriel,” interrupted Flight, wide eyed. “That CIQ trickery. I made him use it, wanting to see him come to harm. That’s why the fight started. And then, then did you see what I did?”

As Flight filled up, reliving his indefencible conduct, Gabriel offered some cold comfort over Flight’s meditative hmmmmmms. 

“Haven’t you got things to do?” said Flight, checking the ceiling for cobwebs.

After an extended “Well,” Gabriel admitted “got a birthday lunch at two.”

“Hot date! Anyone special?”

“Just a friend.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No. It’s Clive. You’ve not met.”

“Sounds riveting, but you’re not going to make it,” said Flight taking a wild stab at the time.

“Don’t worry mate it’s not a problem.”

Flight rapped his knuckles on the side table. “You shouldn’t have bothered coming here.”

“Didn’t really have much choice, you’re a hard man to track down. What’s up with your mobile?”

“Can’t get a signal round here,” said Flight innocently. This was true. There was no satellite yet invented that could reach the cracked carcass finally at peace in a corner of his basement. As a diversion he said, “I’ll get us a drink then. Least I can do. What you having?”

The boy was suckered in. “Peppermint tea, if you’ve got any.”

“Right you are then.”

Gabriel tightened his scarf whilst listening to the gleeful bangs and crashes from another room. Flight returned triumphantly with two overflowing champagne flutes that he had unearthed near his dusty juicer. Flight licked his fingers as he offloaded a glass on Gabriel.

“Scottish tea,” he said, swallowing vigorously at the  crystal. The watery corpses in his sockets thawed slightly and he sat next to Gabriel. “I’ve got another pack of Dromes upstairs, shall I bring them down?”

“Nah, I’m cutting back on the ciggies. Trying to get in shape. I’m going diving with Clive in a couple of months. Need my lungs to be on good form. Anyway, seriously, how long’s that window been busted, it’s bloody freezing in here.”

“Just noticed it today. We get a lot of bats round here. One probably got its radar damaged in a fight with an owl and crashed into the glass. Or it could have been a squirrel or a cat. I’m told it happens all the time. Don’t fret, I’ve got tons of cardboard.”

Flight’s sodden t-shirt lagged, then tore stickily from the leather, before adhering to his back as he dropped his empty flute. Flight knew that he was boozed out unless he could dispose of Gabby and get up to Uncle Unwins off licence. He decided miserably that he would force himself up to the Bexley for lunch with the ancients. It would make a change from gnawing dry supernoodles; get a bit of adult debate about local issues. Earlier that week Flight had raged for two days when he heard that they intended to put micro chips in the dustbins to spy on the rubbish. Flight knew a bit about human rights and he could guide his old pals over a prawn garleac and a brace of Black Lung.

“Sounds good Flight. Looks like you’re getting in shape again,” said Gabriel as Flight adjusted his muddy leisure pants.

“Yeah, been putting in a few miles here and there. Lovely out there in the Great Park. I won’t be entering a marathon anytime soon though, for me it’s just a bit of fun.” 

“Nice. And Angelina? Did you catch up with her again? She was dying to see you for your birthday.”

Wiping fringe from skin Flight explained that he had spoken to his lovely sister numerous times since his birthday. She was a rock. Been to visit. Stayed over. Coming for tea next week in actual fact. Flight’s lies were delivered unfalteringly, hoping that this vapid trial would conclude soon. The men sat in awkward silence and Flight stressed his prone glass with a violent heel punch.

“I’m pleased to hear things are going so well. Problem is that things are a disaster in the office. For you. And your clients. Rutter’s all over them. Look, I need to get going, but before I do I need you to help me.”

“Help? That sounds right. It’s what I do. Give, give, give, give. Yes Gab. Let me help.”

“It’s not like that. It’s just, when are you planning to come back. To the office. I really think that you need to. Things are getting permanently out of shape.”

Flight was circling the room, punching the air. “Tell them I’m dead,” he sang. “Died of being picked apart. Buy me some time on doctor’s orders.”

“Flight, this is serious. Julian’s in your office everyday; on Tuesday he was in for almost three hours. And last week he showed up on four days running. He wants your clients and if you don’t come in I don’t think anyone can stop him. Flight, are you listening? There will be nothing left for you. That is if it’s not already too late.”

“I’d prefer not to look at you,” said Flight shielding his eyes. “You come into my home and bring me this torment? You must leave.”

“And what about your career? Isn’t it worth saving?”

Flight approached his wall so that his forehead touched it. “No it is not Gabriel, and neither am I.”