FLASHBEFOREYOUREYES

BLACK ICE.

You smell quite nice, I muttered to my mugger as he wiggled his little pocket screwdriver under my ribs. Like rain, petrichor, little bit of bonfire. I really fumbled for the word petrichor. Spent time on it, racked my brains for a good few seconds. P-p-tuhh, think it begins with a p, I stammered. There’s still a scar two inches north east from my bellybutton. A little phillip’s head circle. Found the word in the end. He was almost out the park by the time I found it, but it gave me some sense of relief. A small, icy exhale of satisfaction that whistled right on out the new hole in my chest. Two stitches and a tetanus shot. Hardly think about it now. 

I had just left a tennis session with four plastic supermarket bags swinging from my arms. Shouldn’t have done the weekly shop before tennis. Frozen shrimp had seeped out into my locker and the one below. I left them there. Couldn’t face the conversation. He took my racket. I had my wallet and my watch and my good necklace on and he took my racket. I could have bought a new wallet. I couldn’t get another racket off Sarah. He took it and in return gave me a screwdriver scar that throbs just before it rains. My socks smell like shrimp.

WHEEL LOCK

I forgot that the telephone man was coming that evening. He was waiting for me outside of my front door. Sorry, sorry, I got held up, I said, realising I had left my keys in my racket bag. A small red spot seeped into my sports shirt. I kept a spare key under a plant pot. It wasn't my plant pot or plant, it came with the house. It was the last thing I saw almost every evening for three years. Its thin brownish leaves would stare at me through my ground floor bedroom window. I never brought it inside. The telephone man stood too close to me. Spare key in the door my eyes met his, less than a foot away. I remember his nose was small, red, his nostrils flared like outstretched palms. I had the smell of the mugger on my skin. 

I opened the door and we both stood outside. Big reader? He pointed at the three large, open cardboard boxes filled with books sitting in the hallway. I could see her polaroids between the pages. They’re not mine. I replied. He sauntered in before me.

SMOKE. 

SKID.

I almost left, the telephone man chuckled as he rooted around my cupboard under the stairs. I never stick around. Never stick around for anyone, you see. No time with telephones. But you, you are different. Something about your front door, you see. It’s a bad door you’ve got here, real bad door. One of the worst I’ve ever seen. You’ve really got to treat your door better, you see. Treat the wood, some varnish, lick of paint, maybe a big slobber in your case. I hasten to bet it would take three kicks to go right through the wood of your door. 

He talked right through a large crash which I was certain to be the gnome I kept in there. 

He did not pause to reflect on his threat.

Had to wait around to let you know, you see. You need a new door. I see a lot of doors in my time. A lot of people. Knock on enough doors you begin to understand the sound, of good wood, of good doors. One Two, the wood hums. I knock on yours, no song. It’s the silence. You see. Threw me off. Why’ve you got a silent door? You never knock on your own door, how would you know? You just open it. Women need a good door. I never stick around, you see. Knock on a lot of doors. I could fix yours, you see. Don’t just do telephones.

His small nose appeared from under my stairs like a mole poking out its hole. He pointed at a screwdriver in his bag, waggled his finger: would you mind?

SPARKS.

DETACH.

The door closed behind him with what I can only assume to be an unsatisfactory thud. 

Fishcakes for dinner. One as a treat for doing the weekly shop. Another as a treat for being mugged. First one tasted better. I burnt my tongue on the mashed potato. Panted like a dog for minutes to cool it off, didn’t work. This dislodged a fresh scab and my wound began to bleed into my pyjama shirt. Cried liked a child alone at the table for what felt like hours. A creak upstairs brought me back to the evening, I wondered if the telephone man was still in my house. 

METAL RIPPING EARTH. 

The screwdriver I took from the telephone man’s bag felt heavy in my hand. Rust licked the base where metal met the plastic handle. I still remember that slight squeak as the old screw dug into the creviced panel of the door. The chain did not hang as well as it had done on the back door before I removed it. The front door would jangle every time it opened from then on, like the bell on Bruce’s collar. The plant asking to be let in. I yanked the chain hard before bed, it held, and I felt the knot ease up before my eyes fell on the now unprotected back door. 

I should get a new chain.

EARTH RIPPING METAL. 

I met Olga outside the hardware shop. I had been staring at her bike. You don’t get a lot of women riding, she said. Want to try? In any normal circumstance I would have said no, obviously, but I didn’t want to keep buying chains.

Fifteen years of Olga, twenty five years of riding. 

WIND. WEIGHTLESS. GUT.

I can smell the mugger in my helmet. 

THUDCRUNCH. 

I did not expect to be thinking about the mugger.

CREAK. 

BIRD.

The sky is cloudy yet I can see right through. It must be this thicket. The same in the park. Blood in my throat. The mugger. The scar on my chest starts to throb. He smelt of this thicket. I can hear my bike burning not far from me. Olga picked that one out. Tapping on my visor. It’s starting to rain. 

SIRENS.