One Came Down

Beige Wall

His mother had left the milk out. It was warm from sitting in sun who fell in shards, broken by the shutters. The bronze spoon rattled on teeth and a sourness pursued across his tongue. As he placed the spoon down, the wheat began to heave bubbles through the milk. He was hungry, but not for that. 

The kitchen was bleached, with pale tiles and a dull light. And silver cabinets with white plates inside and white draws with silver spoons. And windowsills with water running down from the glass to the sink, trickling down old pipes that went off beneath the road. And a bronze clock who guessed the time. 

The clock shook on his nail as something heavy was thrown upstairs.

The wall in front was plain and beige and a little bumpy. The room was washing out, or indeed in some parts, far past this point. It was left stale and parched and bleached. 

There was a thump from above!

The table was clean and small and bland and beige and sat right against the bumpy wall. 

And something rattled the windows.

The upstairs struggle dripped, like grey-water from old pipes, leaving mould to grow in the walls. It climbed until photos shook and lamps swung. Then, silence would spring and a moment would pass and the horrible thing would wind back up.

The noise hollowed through his skull, drip by drip to grow mould who would follow him down roads and back again.

He pushed his chair back and it screamed at him. He stood in the dry sun a moment but felt no warmth. His feet were chilled by the floor through the holes in his socks.  

The ceiling shook as the spring broke. Silence fell and he prayed, as ever, on disaster. But the cries wound back up and off it went. 

He left the kitchen and moved for the front door. He grabbed an old coat of yellow and a small scarf of white from the muddled heap of dark clothes hanging from the wall of hooks and pegs. The coat was so small and so tight, it should have only belonged to a boy much smaller, much younger. It clung so tight it was tearing. There was a blow above. He closed the door behind him. 

Tumble. His nose pointy, his lips thin. Tall. Too tall.

He churned down the roadside. The morning was grey and the grass between pavement and road was sickly and yellow. 

A small village. Scattered with grey couples who walked the grounds with binoculars and bags of cheese and bread and butter and lists of birds.

A quiet village. No one here had ever known each other. There were no picnics over the hill, no clubs, no newsletters, no walking groups. It was all silent, though, now and then there was a bitting of breaks and metal. The screams came from down the road. 

The turn was far too tight, unannounced and sudden. The old folk would crash their clattering cars right through hedges, colliding with the garage wall. Idiots. 

These little accidents were frequent, no longer a cause for conversation. They may bring a tut from time to time from a younger couple that passed, but no more. Too tired to complain, on went the crashes and on went the  old folk flying through their windscreens.

The flowers of mourning grandchildren built up and up upon one bench granted to the first victim. The flowers brought bees in their hundreds each day. The creatures came in such vast numbers that several cases arose of folk jumping back in fright, ending up flat in the road. Each crash could be heard from Tumble's bedroom, though he didn't jump so much anymore.

The corner drew nearer as Tumble churned on. Far off, church bells were swelling for a christening, soaring. The church sat a mile from his home and still the bells found him, peeping down roads and swinging round trees, giggling at him. Skinny black birds were swirling in broken circles, colliding. Stupid things. On he walked and the bells snooped behind. They got no louder, no dimmer. He neared the corner. 

Ding, dong, ding, dong. 

His coat was dusty, he sniffed and sneezed. He didn't get out much. The coat had been hanging there in its heap on the wall of hooks and pegs for months now.

The church bells rattled round as the corner came close. His breath became mist before him. He met the turn and the turn met him.

CRASH. 

He tumbled down and struck the ground. His bones creaked and his hip cried out. He tried to climb up fast, escape the embarrassment, but there on the pavement lied another boy. They locked eyes and something rang through him, a ringing louder than that of the bells. The boy in front rubbed his head. 

"Tumble?" 

"Henry."

They stared at one another beneath dull skies as bells rang on.