John Staines celebrated the first day of his retirement
by buying his wife a shiny red Mazda. Then he stood back in his front garden as
she drove off, out of his life in it, the metallic gleam disappearing into the
sunset.
It didn’t take long
for John to learn that when Priscilla folded herself and her blonde bob into
the driving seat, they hadn’t gone far. She parked at Barney the plumber’s at
number 46; an acquaintance that had developed when their pipes had needed
lagging.
All that was left of
John’s retirement bonus was the elaborate gilt and rather distasteful carriage
clock that had been presented. It seemed he was given it to watch its
interminable ticking, now that his life no longer needed to revolve around
clocks. Time hung heavily.
The company retained
Priscilla’s services, but no longer had any need for his “pernickety
perfectionism.” Technology could deal with the more fastidious details. In any
case, they could employ two younger people for his salary, a two for one deal.
John discovered that
if he leaned out of his bathroom window, he could see number 46 quite clearly.
He started to jog along the road and into the park, as though his speed would
make the day move faster. Each time he would look in through their windows,
memorising all the details.
One morning he slid
along the park track with his head lowered, when he had a sensation of being
followed. His hood was wrapped around his head and rain ran in rivulets down
his face. Mud slithered over his legs as his trainers slipped and squelched.
There was a sniffing, snuffling, panting sound around his heels.
John looked down at
a creature with mud mangled fur. He kept running. So did the dog, keeping
perfect time. Never before had John been the recipient of so much attention.
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