Bristle - A Short Story Read online

  Published by Obyod Press

  [email protected]

  Copyright © Mark White 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters portrayed in this book are fictitious; any similarity to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Will liked his bath water really hot, like Winston Churchill. So hot it was almost scalding, even in summer. The trouble was; it made him itch.

  He had one on his back right now, just out of reach. He looked about. That toilet roll tube. Perhaps he could screw it up into a hard point. He tried it but the cardboard went soggy and the itch was still there.

  What about his toothbrush?

  He reached over to the sink, splashing water on the floor, and picked it up. It was old, the bristles too soft to do a really decent job on his teeth. Why on earth had he been using this thing for so long? He liked to take care of himself but for some reason he could not remember the last time he had bought a new toothbrush. He twisted the head this way and that. It was too springy to snap right away but after about a minute the brush snapped with a crack. He reached round and dug at his shoulder blade with the sharp end. Bliss. He let the broken pieces fall into the bath. Time passed pleasantly. When his fingers began to wrinkle he pulled the plug, climbed out and towelled himself down. He caught sight of the pieces floating in the water and fished them out, intending to drop them into the waste basket. He stopped. That was odd.

  Under the bright bulb something glinted. He peered closer. A thin wire protruded from the head of the brush that he had snapped off. He sat down on the side of the bath and examined it, puzzled. Why have a wire inside a toothbrush?

  He shrugged and dropped it into the bin. It was time for the match.

  He had been looking forward to this all day but for some reason his television was playing up. He knew that the antenna on the roof was loose and there was usually a bit of a snowstorm but tonight it was worse than ever. He contented himself for a while with listening to the commentary but the inability to see the goals was frustrating and he turned it off. All the channels seemed to have the same problem.

  He was normally a sound sleeper but that night he felt feverish. Several times he awoke and went through to the bathroom for no apparent reason. He did not need to use the toilet and despite the dull throb in his stomach there was no nausea. Once, on returning to the bedroom, he heard a scraping on the roof just above his window. The antenna had evidently slipped further than he had suspected. He would have to get someone to go up and take a look.

  Finally it really was time to get up. He felt as though he had hardly slept at all, even though the night had passed in a hazy blur. When he blundered through to the bathroom the disappearance of his toothbrush confused him for a moment before he remembered. He performed his ablutions and dressed, one eye on the alarm clock. It was recycling day and he went into the kitchen and swept a few plastic bottles and cans into the box that he kept by the back door. Pulling on his coat he left the box outside and went to work.

  He returned that evening feeling irritable. His boss had been awkward and his request for leave had been refused. His irritation rose on seeing the box by the front door was still full. They had forgotten to collect it. He glanced down the street. A few empty boxes were still outside doors. He alone had been overlooked. He let himself into the house, stooping to gather the post from the doormat. Bills, junk mail and… what was this? A handwritten note. Were the neighbours complaining about his hedge again? He snorted. Perhaps if they didn’t always park their van in his spot…

  The note was not from the neighbours. He went through to the living room and read it as he fed the goldfish. The handwriting was sloping and ill-formed.

  Please put all your plastic in the box.

  He frowned. Was this some new policy that everyone knew about except him? He had thought that only bottles and tubs could be recycled but if they wanted other things too, good for them. He glanced about briefly. That old coat hanger could go for a start. But it was time for dinner.

  That night, as he used the toilet before bed, he caught sight of the broken pieces of brush in the bin. Better to recycle than send them to landfill. He went to the front door and threw the pieces, along with the coat hanger, into the box. It was time for bed. He had a meeting early in the morning.

  The alarm woke him at six. It was dark and it occurred to him to wonder why there were no sparrows squabbling outside his window as he stretched, feeling refreshed. What a contrast with the night before! He marvelled at how instantly alert he felt. That was the best sleep ever! He was up in good time but he had to get a move on. Twenty minutes later he stepped out of the front door, his mouth feeling furry. He would have to go to the shops at lunchtime. With that thought he glanced down at the box. The toothbrush was gone but the coat hanger was still there. The street was deserted. Who on earth would steal a broken toothbrush? He had lost chairs from the back yard, even the aerial from his car, but this?

  There was no time to think about it. He had just remembered that he needed to ring up work and make sure that there was a flip chart for his presentation. He took out his mobile phone and dialled. The dial tone sounded for perhaps half a second and then cut out. He checked the screen. There were four bars of signal and he had bought credit only a couple of days ago. He tried dialling again with the same result. Damn phone. He stuffed it back into his pocket and walked to his car, scowling at the neighbour’s van in passing. His waking good humour had dissipated as he climbed behind the wheel. The engine stalled before he had moved five feet. The steering lock came on. He swore and somehow negotiated the vehicle back to the kerb. He tried the ignition three or four times. The dashboard lights came on but the engine was dead. Flat battery? No, he was very careful about turning off his lights ever since that unfortunate incident at the theatre, and in that case the engine would have not have started at all. Besides he had driven home in broad daylight.

  He sat for a few moments. His first instinct was to ring the breakdown company and he took out his mobile, digging in his wallet for his membership card before he remembered. He didn’t have time for this. He opened the car door and something flashed past. Something that had been just outside, next to the car. His heart leapt and he chided himself. Just a cat or a fox. He felt tense. He went back inside the house, already anticipating his manager’s sarcastic comments. He went to the phone and picked up the receiver. What now? There was no dial tone, just a sound like rustling paper. He tapped the cut-off switch and tried again, and again with no success. As a last resort he tried his mobile again but it was still unresponsive.

  He needed to contact the breakdown people but notifying work was the priority. There were buses but they would not deliver him to his office in time to begin the presentation. There was one due in about ten minutes. He had just enough time to dash off a quick email. Someone would have to cover for him at the start of the meeting. He went to the computer on the table next to the aquarium. The water looked cloudy, so much so that he could not see the fish. He had only cleaned them out a few days ago but perhaps the filter had clogged up. To his relief the computer started up as normal and he logged on and went to his email account.


  Martin my car has broken down. I am coming by bus asap. Can you get Jenny to make a start for me? If she goes over last month’s sales I can take over from there. All the figures are on m

  He had typed for about thirty seconds before he realised that the words had ceased to appear on the screen. He mashed the keyboard with his palm but the cursor had frozen. He unplugged the keyboard, blew on the socket in the vague hope that that might help and replaced the cable. There was no change. The keyboard was frozen and so, it turned out, was the mouse.

  He had wasted enough time. That bus would be due any minute. He switched off the computer and headed outside. He was normally careful about closing the front door but he had left it open in his haste. He locked it carefully and set off. Now that he knew he had to walk it struck him how unseasonably cold it was. He arrived at the bus stop and there he lost his temper. The electronic board announced that the next bus would not be due until eight o’clock. He examined the printed timetable and double-checked the clock on his phone. There was supposed to be a bus at seven. He was going to be too late to do the presentation.

  There was nothing for it but to go back home. Maybe his phone or computer would have sorted themselves out. At the very least he was going to have a cup of coffee. Damn, it was cold for summer, even though it was early morning. Come to that, it was unusually dark as well.

  He arrived back at the house and let himself in. There was a strange smell that he could not place, almost like a charge of static electricity. Maybe that was it, he thought vaguely, a problem with the mains interfering with his equipment. He had a look at the fuse box in the kitchen but nothing seemed amiss. Brew first. He made a cup of black coffee with plenty of sugar, went to the living room and switched the computer on. This time he accessed his emails without difficulty.

  He blinked. Three hundred and eighty unread items! That was impossible. He went to his inbox and checked. It was true. A huge amount of junk mail had accumulated even though he had checked it only the day before. With this much memory in use he would be unable to send a message to work. He flicked through the emails, deleting them without looking at them, until suddenly he came to a message from work.

  Will as per my previous emails we have terminated your contract. As you have not contacted this office this termination is treated as a resignation, therefore you have no right of appeal. Please return any company property that you may have in your possession including keys, swipe card and mobile phone.

  He stared at the screen dully, unable to process the words. Terminated? Technically he was not even late, although by now he should have been arriving at the office. And what previous emails?

  He scrolled down the page and as he did so he caught sight of a date. November 14th.

  It had to be an email from last year; somehow the order of the messages had become jumbled. He looked again and his mind reeled. It was not a message from last year. He read on, his hand shaking on the mouse. There were more emails from work. He counted five or six and when he opened them their tone became more and more abrupt. A message in August, inquiring after his health. Two in September suggesting a home visit from his manager and one in early November, inviting him to a disciplinary hearing.

  He had overslept by three months.

  He backed away from the keyboard, feeling suddenly sick and giddy. There was a cold draught on his neck and, turning, he saw that he had left the front door open again. He thought he saw a strange figure out in the street as he went to close it but his head was spinning and hallucinations were the least of his problems right now. It was all he could do to fit the key in the lock. Drink some more coffee, it’ll perk you up. He took a mouthful. It tasted vile and he spat it back into the cup. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than his bed. He climbed the stairs unsteadily, leaning heavily on the bannister. He thought he would faint before he reached the top but somehow he crawled onto the landing. Forget the bed, here will do just fine. He lay outstretched on the thick carpet but even in his exhaustion the metallic taste in his mouth was appalling to him. With a huge effort he stood and staggered into the bathroom.

  He filled the sink with cold water and dashed it over his face. The shock gave him just enough energy to squeeze some toothpaste onto his brush. His last thought, as he crawled into bed, was how nice and firm the bristles were.

  The End

 

 

  Mark White, Bristle - A Short Story

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