By Petros Cowley

The fourth in a sequence of very important stories for the edification of all mankind.

‘Neath scarlet winter dawn draw forth these souls, through sleeping, grit-salted streets, a solemn band o’ men by marvel o’ steel chariot. Deputed o’ the Princes Drive Recycling Centre by wise magi o’ the Warwickshire District Council, this solemn band pass hither house to house unseen in ceremonial green garb, reaping the offerings left roadside by townsfolk yesternight. They bless those homes whose gifts amass in trunk o’ their chariot, they bless those homes with charms and spells o’ health and virility, fertility and vegetable bounty, chanting at deep bows through clouds o’ frosted breath to their tonic refrain: “For we be the binmen o’ Warwickshire, we take death from this town, leave summer in its wake; rise ye folk o’ Leamington, rise; rise into the new dawn’s light.” Lo! ‘neath scarlet winter dawn draw forth these souls, and they draw upon the gates below Flat 2, High Street, within which dwelleth in earthly slumber our hero at two floors elevation, within which toileth in devilish craft our villain at one slightly higher elevation. Offerings in stow, the binmen repay with their blessings and proceed in smoke and incantation to return to the recycling centre and be paid their due by the council magi for this their sacred work, and by wisdom shall these magi tend to the townsfolk’s offerings, and in sacrosanct ways and by wisdom shall the council magi divide these offerings by their determined material and geomantic properties, divide them into numerous natural categories to each be dealt with as appropriate by further entities, some trow divine, entities shrouded from the eyne o’ the common folk by those labyrinthine mysteries and traditions o’ bureaucracy.

            And see come next in red the merry man, bearded, by subtler palate o’ morning, through these streets about to stir to wake, streets that crepitate so faintly. And see the hearthless homes whose chimneys billow not sith decades, and see to each in turn in red the man so merry approach, and see him lavish them with his gifts o’ myriad utility. By his joyous cantons and the jingling o’ his red trolley’s bells, the frost upon the stones and the tiles crackleth to melt in his passage, the windows that blossom each in sequence with sunflower light, and the figures o’ townsfolk awoken that skip across those windows with what rejuvenation to unwrap his gifts as he sings to his refrain: “O, O, be I the postman, and bring I to ye from Bath Street, what gifts thee couldn’t trow; O, O, be I the postman, and bring I to ye from Bath Street, what gifts o’ printed knowledge and o’ manufactured commodity; O, O, be I the postman, and mine own livery be red; O, O, O, be I the postman, to take from ye thy dread. ” Lo! he too doth now draw upon the gates o’ our hero’s tower. At two floors elevation, from dream doth our hero hearken to the postman’s jolly bells below, from troubled dream doth he hearken, doth he lift from his slumber now, for the merry man in red hath come to take away his dread, to allay his earthly troubles with the divine and glorious gift o’ knowledge. And onward chime the bells o’ the merry man in red, till he returneth his way to 32 Bath st, Leamington Spa Cv31 3AE, where dwelleth in deep and walled in chamber the slave oracles o’ International Distribution Services plc (formerly Royal Mail) who doth therein divine o’ procedures for adequate distributions o’ post and for maximisation o’ company profit, where also might be exchanged by townsfolk foreign currencies, might be purchased envelopes, Sellotape, palling paper, instruments o’ mathematical utility, zoomorphic stationary, might be donated one’s wages to the high priestly kings o’ the Swiss investment company KKCG for propitiation o’ unnamed and unknown deities that pecuniary miracles may thence befall oneself, if one so fancieth his chances at such a thing

            And on this morn’ so blessed now cometh these, cometh last these supplicants forweary o’ limb in their forest greens to beg for alms and beg for shelter. Cold in their rags they draw upon the households offering the riches o’ magnanimity and virtue – or so they’d have it seem, for indeed these creatures’ suffering is a suffering only at the hands o’ their own immorality and spiritual infortitude. Let us take this woeful whoreson who draweth towards us now o’ the east, risen ere dawn o’ some godforsaken sylvan lair in which again hath he abrook’d the bitter cold o’ this winter’s nocturne. He rappeth thrice upon each door and should’st an inmate err to open up and summon themselves ere him, they shall find themselves to suffer his discordant entreaties and cries: “I come from HelloFresh to thee, hast thou heard o’ HelloFresh? would’st thou wish to buy from them some food that thou might later eat; a deal! a deal! A deal be on today! I come from HelloFresh to thee, o’ which thou hast now heard from me; gi’u’sum money, I pray truly o’ thee.” But e’en o’ the townsfolk clumsy enough to open their doors upon him, none remain unwise to the diabolical schemes o’ him and his kind which he seeketh now in vain to wreak upon whomever, like the devil. Tales o’ antiquity still circulate o’ poor folks who long ago offered some money to the HelloFresh, and o’ how dearly and patiently these souls did pay for the temporary riches o’ delivered food. But let us return again to this cur at present before us. Shunned or ignored by the last many households, the residents e’er wise to his schemes, he too doth now encroach upon the gates o’ our hero’s tower, drawing near with hunched backbone in the cold, rubbing together his leathery palms, for strange phenomena draw his animal attention thither and the flames o’ evil now kindle in his eyne. A thunderous bruit rattleth at the translucent pane o’ one window at the top o’ the tower, on second o’ two floors, and reverberateth o’er the street through the charcoal Winter sky, and the light in this window might be observed to be switched on and off in an arbitrary code, and ’tis as though some entity wert sat up thither making all this bruit and playing around with the lights, and that. And in such a manner, thus pondering upon these phenomena, and for this being as good as any a residence to descend upon, the fiend proceedeth his way through the gates and into the back where the buzzers for the two upstairs flats may be discovered upon the wall, and upon the one read ‘no. 2’ he tolleth, for that is the leftmost o’ the two, and how now he prepareth his trickery.

            But so disconcerting is this bruit from the abode upstairs that now as our hero, dispelled from his slumber by the toll o’ the buzzer, having arisen and adorned his ablutionary robes and having descended in said robes from his chamber so deftly to attend to the one responsible for the toll, as he openneth the door upon that one, the fiend, that the fiend neglecteth entirely his wonted entreaties. Forsooth! speaketh he, that fiend. What on earth be that treacherous racket, man? whence issueth such stormthunder? And to this doth our hero respond, in solemn tones and his ablutionary robes o’ finest polyester, robes enwoven by the infant tailors o’ the far and magical lands o’ Ceylon whom be employed hither and again for honour and a pittance by those o’ the great and allied clans so named Mark and Spencer, I languish in the shadow o’ sooth – that devil, that villain, hath he been up thither making sorrow o’ me sith the hour o’ vespers last. And he speaketh not o’ his deeds upon any man’s inquiry. I pray I be exonerated anon o’ this plight, man! And so remarks the fiend: What godlessness! And so continueth our hero: Indeed. I lament, that such happenings may befall me in mine own home so contrariwise to the ways and designs set forth by the words o’ our Lord! For north o’ perhaps fifteen hours hath this devil molested mine own peace like so. But, sayeth Sophocles, let us cease with our laments, and chant our funeral cantons nay more, for these events hath all been preordained. The men nod in solemn approval with the ancient one’s words. Though after a further silence, the fiend recalleth his original designs: But allow us to digress from these troubling devilworks, mine own learned friend. For I tell thee, I shall sow in thee the seeds o’ mirth with these mine good words next! I tell thee now: I come to thee from HelloFresh, to- Swiftly interrupteth our hero so, so stately a hand o’s his betwixt he and the fiend: I do beseech thee cease. I thank thee, but thou findest me belated. Mine own wealth hath been squandered o’ yore on sundry other goods. Verily, in mine own penury o’ present I have not the means o’ procuring thy trifling meals. I do beg thy pardon, good man, but I bid thee now depart o’ me yet amicably.  But the fiend doth festinate on in his skulduggery, nevertheless. But so too sayeth Sophocles through the lips o’ suffering Oedipus, that a trifling service may garner a man great reward. If only I wert permitted to relate to thee o’ the deals now on that- Our hero hath heard enough, and as so snappeth he: Hist! Cease to pester me further with thy talk o’ deals, usurer! I shan’t abide thee any further! avaunt! I bid thee twice avail me o’ thyself, accursed one! Cur! Oedipus! I know well o’ thy kind and yet still have shown thee the goodwill till now not to make light o’ thine ignominy! Aroint! retire to thy den, plague o’ my morning! back to the woodland grove! The fiend cowereth and fleeth of our hero’s tower. Openeth the fiend’s mouth. Curse thee! a blight upon thy lot! may thou knowest what it be to gain then lose an empire! crieth back that one as our hero watcheth him scurriedly depart. And at that, once reaching aside and with much delight to retrieve the gift earlier bestowed him thither by the merry man in red, he thrusteth shut the door and withdraweth into the shaded passages o’ his tower so as to re-ascend upon his abode place, flat 2, and – after unwrapping his gift and determining for one his thoughts o’ the book’s cover design and for two that the book’s page count indeed required for it nay especially a grand commitment at all for he hath many other things to be doing other than the simple amassing o’ words – confront our foul and noxious villain withal whom by signed lease he must share said domain at the discretion o’ their landlord and provided too that the rent is given at the allotted dates until the termination o’ said lease which to the best o’ his by nay means especially limited knowledge falleth upon a date as far estranged as Lammas next, the following year Anno Domini. Blessings be repaid to the merry man in red!             

            Months earlier. It is quiet. Abraham lies in bed. Abraham has been lying in this bed for an unknown span of time. It isn’t so dark outside anymore. Abraham cannot get to sleep. Abraham is daunted by the prospect of a tomorrow. Abraham knows that he must get to sleep soon, Abraham wants to fall asleep soon, and so Abraham cannot. Abraham continues to lie there awake. Abraham feels really upset, in a foreign land, in a foreign house, in a bed that isn’t his.

            Another hour goes. The doors of the window hang open as they have done all night. And the rust of a dawn collects between the old wooden shutters. It’s warm. The air is warming. Abraham is sweating. Abraham can reach neither the remote for the air conditioning, nor can he reach the windows from where he lays. Abraham sighs, and quite enormously. Abraham frowns. Abraham discards of his sheet in a gust and lets it settle beside his bed on the floorboards. Abraham labours his body around to face away from the window, the light. Abraham stares at the wall. There is nothing on the wall. Only the hue of dawn. Soon his eyes draw closed again. He gazes at the pale forms sailing through sea of black, slowly, in the silence of the universe; and those two float toward their unity. Slowly, from either side, white, floating into oneness. Slowly, at the centre of the universe, they meet.

            Boinggg!  Abraham’s eyes have crashed together! He wakes with a start, bumping his head back upon the headboard. Awoooo! he cries.

            Collecting himself, he turns over supine, and lets his warm weight sink into the mattress. The dreaded day has broken. Shadows seizure through the light upon the opposite wall. Without, birds in parched trees and crickets in crackling shrubbery sing horrid songs to plead for beastly flesh, and the locals in the dusty streets below have begun with their quotidian hubbub, with all manners of babbling and pot smashing and engine revving, honking horns and blasting out their foreign music. Abraham sighs, and again quite enormously. Abraham stares at the ceiling. There: a mosquito orbits nothing. A mosquito adds to the noise. Zip-zip; Abraham’s eyes are stinging; mosquito conducts the pain. Abraham knows that he will be tired. Abraham, is sweating. Abraham, is miserable. And eventually, Abraham, falls back asleep.

            But now there have been footsteps approaching. Footsteps have now been approaching in the hall. His ownmost purpose – to accept that one has been awake when the footsteps reach the door. Beyond that: nothing. Now for some time. It isn’t really something that can be prevented, it is true and it is pure possibility. That door will open, soon, and soon is the longest of all waits, soon is the patience of the damned. Abraham doesn’t move.

            Abraham, are you asleep? … Abraham? … Are you still sleeping, Abraham? The footsteps patter to the bedside and there the footsteps stop. Someone is breathing over him; he feels atop him the weight of a man’s shadow. Abraham. It’s the middle of the day, Abraham. Get up, oaf. A hand grips hold of his bare flesh, rattles his torso, riles his blood. Fucking hell, man, your skin’s like fried egg! Yuck! … The breathing continues. It laughs. … I know your awake, Abraham. … Abraham. … Eh, I’ll leave you now, but get up in the next twenty minutes, alright. I don’t want another Barcelona episode. You promised you’d take an interest in things this time. Come on. We’ve things to see. And I’m gonna shut your window. It’s like hell in here. The window is heard to shut. Do you want the air conditioning on? If you wake up, I’ll turn on your air conditioning. … Abraham. … Wake up and I’ll put on the air conditioning. … Fine, boil. Just get up soon. Exit the footsteps.

            But where is the noise? Abraham hasn’t heard the noise. Abraham just hears the noises out in the street, the zipping above of that minute creature. Where had been the noise? Abraham, takes a peek.

            Haha! Got you! Haha! You can’t pretend to be asleep now! The footsteps patter back to the bedside, the breathing, the shadow. Come on, I saw you open your eyes. More footsteps enter. These stop at the other side of the bed. Hath the princess awoken? asks this second pair of footsteps. I’m unsure, Will, says the first, but I’m certain I just saw her eyes open, which leads me to question the status of the princess’ mortality! The second passes air through his nostrils. Well, a sleeping princess just needs the kiss of a prince to wake her! Here comes your kiss, Princess Abraham. Mmmmmm…

            For fuck’s sake, fine! Princess Abraham bolts up and repels his prince. Fine! I’m awake! Are you happy now, you dicks? They stand over him laughing, one at each side of the bed. Yes! they both respond.

            Abraham releases the wet weight of his head back into the warmly brittle fabric. Congealed, his hair prickles in the heat. Fuck off. I’ll be up in five minutes. And he yawns. Let me get dressed and stuff. The two patter out giggling.

            Abraham groans. Abraham watches the ceiling. The mosquito orbits the same nothing in the bleached light of noon. The mosquito adds to the noise. Abraham can hear them walking down the stairs. Abraham can hear them chattering downstairs; Classic Abraham, one of them says, but from there on their words are lost to Abraham, words now only noises stirring together with the words only noises without, in an unknown language, in a torrid, dusty, foreign street. Abraham takes the sheet from the floor and pulls it whitely back over himself. He wriggles a little. He smiles. Somewhere far out there is the sea, a carpet of blue, swinging from the moon, sweeping the sand with its tassels and back, and forth, and back. Sleep sweeps back so sweet over Abraham. Abraham. Abraham! You fat bastard, get up! We’ve got to leave the house. The sheet is swept away from his body, cast over the foot of the bed. Look, Will! Haha! Look at it! That’s not very princess like! Abraham recoils up against the headboard, tucking his thighs tight to his chest and gripping himself by the hair-scribbled ankles. He is panting. His eyes are wide and bloodshot. The other two loom laughing over him, one at either side of the bed.

            Robes o’ the Orient afloat in his thrall doth now swiftly our hero traverse the landing, doth he pass such wonders o’ man’s ingenuity: a white cuboid structure seemingly fashioned someway after the human countenance obtrudeth forth across the landing and we see it not only by the flat’s entrance but we see it further to possess many an eye above its impressive disc mouth and indeed so numerous are its eyne that nay visitor may elude its surveyances upon entry, and into said impressive mouth through which a child or puny woman might be readily inserted and thus blessed in the noisome tumbling o’ its drum o’ alloyed metals doth this structure suck in and expunge o’ all the spiritual gunk and filth foisted upon the cloths and fabrics placed therein, and so doth the inmates o’ this flat oft place assortments o’ their begrimed and befouled garments and sheets and towels into this mouth and ’tis quoth by these inmates that when they later return that these fabrics are found by them to have been cleansed in this mouth by arcane powers divine, only to be dried ere wearable afresh once retrieved, and the name o’ this structure is HotPoint. Now see hither our hero having manoeuvred so adroitly around HotPoint, robes o’ the orient afloat quite so in his thrall, and see him ascend a further three steps, his hands that sweepeth o’er ornamented bannister, to tread upon the villain’s causeway, and above the raised ingress o’ this causeway is hung one further wonder o’ mankind’s ingenuity: the tower so positioned by its ancient architects o’er the energy lines thither divined in an age immemorial by druids o’ the national grid, arcane and primordial energies may to the present be channelled through its walls and its ceilings to be transmitted and thus revealed to the mortal eye as golden sluice of numinous luminosity through numerous glass orbs such as this hither hung aloft above our hero now from insulated wire, but if only things wert so simple, for the venal wizards who long have wrought their evils under such banners as British Gas and OVO Energy have toiled many an hour in dark and maleficent conjurings to excogitate o’ ways to successfully arrogate for themselves these primordial channels o’ beatific emanation and thus having then indeed so rendered the flux o’ these energies as subject to their command doth they siphon vast profits from the residents o’ this town like many others that their electricity and not just their electricity may not be switched off and their quality o’ life thoroughly trammelled, and a sad and bothersome thing ’tis, say the hollow-pocketed townsfolk. And now doth our hero approach that source o’ the queer phenomena noted earlier in connection with the attention it garnered from that disreputable visitor; doth our hero now approach the door behind which our villain laboureth now in his noxious industry, the door whose fanlight strobeth o’ dark to light in much fury, o’ light to dark in much thunder.

            Knock.

            The bruit flusheth to coffin silence. The fanlight falleth grey with sepulchral whisper- light o’ without. The villain pierceth the silence with grave and cavernous voice. Who dareth disturb my work?

            Hear thou, thunderous one! Shalt thou toil many an hour yet therein, or might I soon relieve myself o’ this suffering? dareth our hero ask o’ the occupier. Five mortal minutes, growleth the occupier, the storm broiling within his voice. I detest thee for thy perfidy, villain! continueth our hero. For thou spakest just those words yesternight! I bid thee, verily, speakest thy next in sooth! The occupier setteth the fanlight back in strobes, as he bursteth into a roar: Sooth!? What be that in sooth? But that I shall never relinquish my throne to thee! Begone, gargoyle o’ my morning! Begone! Begone from my land!

            So waving a potent finger at the doorway our hero retreateth. Curse thee! crieth he back down the causeway. A blight upon thy silly land! I shall seize them from thee! Thou shalt behold through running tears the crimson sun o’ battle set! At once the bruit resumeth, and our hero’s robes are thrown up so; their hem even beyond his waist ere settling back down, and the orb above and aforementioned of molten sand with its sluices of numinal luminous emission flickereth and rocketh o’ its wire, and the very building itself now prattleth and sprinkleth out dust o’ its inner vertices, verily, verily, verily. And I beseech of thee, lead us not into darkness with thy meddling, John! And with these his final words, on our hero proceedeth to his chamber to dress, verily, verily, verily, verily. And verily, verily, verily, verily, verily, do five or so minutes go past, and now do cars scud past, and pedestrians, pigeons, through a scene so greyly, so sadly overcast, as our hero steps out onto the pavement and stuffs his hands into his coat from the spanking winter cold.

            Before him, a white horse with rider draws forth along the road. And behind it draws a storm of billowing exhausts, red-eyed vessels of the damned in its thrall. Our hero stops, despite his certain urgency, to look. The traffic stops as the rider halts at the lights. The horse splutters its lips, the hot condensation of its breath rising in a cloud. Pedestrians hobble across by the green man’s watch to the extension of their days. ABBA plays from a car. Yellow, turn the lights, a final woman scattering to the opposite bank, green, then forth drives the rider the storm cloud.

            Our hero turns and gets underway. An old crone clothed in black cloth then drifts him slowly past, a great clunking crucifix glinting around her neck. Has he arisen?

            No. Abraham is in bed. The others have left him be, relented. They said that they shall return in the evening, that Abraham has not a choice but to go out “boozing” with them in the city later. Abraham wastes the afternoon alone on his phone. He stands only twice; once he went to the toilet, the other time went and retrieved that sandwich from the fridge, the sandwich he bought back at the airport but forgot to eat. During one of these brief and muggy windows of time, he had also finally bothered to switch on the air conditioning, and he would be very comfortable indeed lying there now had he not filled his bed with sandwich crumbs, too lazy then to go back downstairs for a plate, too lazy now to stand up and shake them out.

            What little white light had been passing through the shutters by day, now reddens and recedes as yet another night encroaches over that yet another day. The locals outside had quietened earlier during the siesta hours when only the cricket song could be heard, but since then, now late in the evening, they’ve grown even louder than they were in the morning, tremendously loud, incredibly loud. Abraham really wouldn’t have been surprised to see a concert or some sort of siege going on right beneath his window, had he not been too lazy to get up and look.

            Abraham’s phone battery dies at last. Abraham cannot reach the charger. Abraham sighs, his heaving body bare and amber by evening half-light, and he lies listening to the indecipherable rampage outside. He sinks very nearly again into sleep.

            The front door opens then slams shut downstairs. Abraham stirs. Laughter and poor humour rise through the floorboards. The others are back, most likely drunk already. It’s darker than since he last looked. It’s very nearly dark, the dregs of that dusk filtering in. Abraham groans. Here they come, now for some time.

            Abraham, arise! bursts Will, summoning himself in the doorway, the other Will appearing promptly behind him, but a little smaller, like an echo. Look, croaks Abraham, at great labour to appear as though in some pain, I’m really upset about this, but I’m feeling a bit poorly. He swallows, smacking his lips. I really, really did want to go out with you tonight, but I surely can’t in this terrible state I’m in now. I’m really in quite a lot of pain. Poorly, very poorly. The two Wills in the doorway turn their heads to look at each other, rosy of cheek – for they have indeed already begun their night’s boozing, and Abraham can smell it on them from across the room – and their faces begin to tremble, and then they erupt into one laughter. Classic Abraham! Will says. Fat liar, says Will, but at this point, I really can’t be asked. I put it to you once and now: get up this instant and get yourself dressed, come out with us, or don’t, stay in that bed of yours. So which is it? Abraham sighs, turns away his face into the pillow. Fine, declares Will, we’ll leave you here to waste the night away. It’s a beautiful evening out there. Have loads of fun rotting here. They retreat.Will is gone, Will is gone. The front door opens and shuts.

            After languishing some more in his bed, night having now fallen, and the room a humming navy blue, Abraham flips over and switches on the bedside lamp. It’s a cheap looking little thing, of translucent blue plastic coverings and two metal conduit pipes, providing him with only a very mean quantity of light. Abraham slides open one of the draws of the chest upon which rests that lamp. In it is a pad of paper and a pencil. Abraham considers them a moment. A pad of paper. A yellow pencil rests upon it at an angle. Shadows fill the back of the draw.

            Abraham, grunts, shuts the draw, turns off the lamp, falls back asleep. His phone lies dead at his side. Will is gone, Will is gone, it is dark.

            Our hero is proceeding yet down the streets of Royal Leamington Spa. The pavements fill as he advances on the parade. A train jounces forth along the tracks overhead and the pigeons come weaving with noise through the girders afraid, cooing, egesting at plenty, and by the moss and the moisture peeling down brown red of brickwork, the townsfolk in their winter coats come shuffling along beneath, regaling one another with their stock o’ tales and carolling o’ their songs: ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb! Bolly boobar! Bolly barbar rhubarb! Io! Christmas lights above, shine on our fields, Bolly barbar Rhubarb! Ho! May our soils be replete! May our sons have ten sons! Bolly barbar rhubarb! Oi!’ And onward do they chant: ‘Io Saturnalia! Ho Saturnalia!’ tossing sprigs o’ laurel and holly into the road, in their crowns of flowers and thorn and berries, in their arms felled firs and pines replete and redolent of odour to return back to their homes with. By green, by red, by gold; by day as by night; the lights shine down on the Leamington parade. Sun of sons, this Wednesday morn’.

            Our hero proceeds past at his left a portal to a frozen landof festivity open Saturdays 8am-7pm, Sundays 10am-4pm, Mondays 8am-7pm, Tuesdays 8am-7pm, Wednesdays 8am-7pm, Thursdays 8am-7pm, Fridays 8am-7pm, although these hours may be subject to variation during bank holidays; a frozen world of cheap and frozen wonders, beige and generally amorphous, such as seen on these posters in the windows festively embellished. ‘Christmas at Iceland,’ declares the poster, with at either side bebaubled conifers pictured evergreen. ‘Half price on selected frozen goods,’ declares the poster, andO what a merry time of year! That a bairn was born in Ostwery Shropshire of virgin capital, a mere thirty pounds, by the word of angel Malcom, Knight of the Crown, Founder and Executive Chairman, over fifty years ago. And shepherds and kings and Magi came from distant lands in their big red lorries to bestow their gifts upon the bairn and pack his freezers to abundance. And so quoth the angel Malcom, that this shop was the shop of God and that it would acquire Bejam and spread across the whole of the atlas, that every point on the compass would one day lead a traveller directly to an Iceland. And so were his words fulfilled for his words were the words of God. And so can the townsfolk buy selected frozen goods at half price this Christmas at Iceland, for these bargains are the bargains of God, God the all-knowing, the all-powerful, the all-forgiving. And on the fifty and second year was come in-to that place the wisemen cleped Abraham Nicholas de Abrahams (physicist and mathematician, protector of men’s pensions) and Hans Armsends (mathematician, guardian of the data) with both of whom our hero then cohabitated. And of this their abode place, like so oft, to Iceland the two wisemen then would wend, fermented juices o’ an orchard for their Wassailing to seek, those o’ the farmer Jack, bottled blue at one pound and twenty pence a litre. Though of this slop was our hero loth to quaffe, For it reek of what goeth down the bogge, So oft wolde he goe to the other sellers, For to seke of ales much better. So then these men were one as party, As they dwelten in euel squalor farty, With sondry another in tenancy bond, Though blight of deuel wolde smite hem anon. Fro scarce two months together whane’er the heofons wolde darken by night, And whan these men wolden slumber quite tight, Forth wolde crawleth of hell through the skirting boards, To the kitchen floor the godless horde. ‘Neath light of moon in dinner’s crumbes wolde these smale creatures orgiyen at their sabbath uncouthed, With waxen hand of henged in blazes britely ‘neath our good man’s roof, But anon weren the power of their spells to dwindle, And roseth of the men a single, Of deuellish drunken hunger in a hehstald hour, Of loafs and pastries for to deuour; Into the kitchen cristen Hans Armsends, And before that sight he cameth nigh to his heart’s end. And so these men by one by two, grewen frod to that euel multitude, And of these men one Edward Benton, Whom thus far hath nay hadde mention, Sent word of hir plite with deuel, to Mr. Hopkins Buggefindere general, Who cameth that next morn’, And was revilen at what were through that door. He flen ere the men hadde risen, And sent hem an email quite ful of derision. He spake clean thy flat, That in two days wolde he cometh back. So good Benton told his men, To have the plece proper orderly ere then. In the kitchen they did toil, Two nights with hir foaming oils, And thus it cameth much to his frite when Hopkins wrote agen to Benton, Claiming that our men must be verily crasen, And ‘neath his message was ajoinen one pictorial demonstration, Of that what hadde been discoverre, Within the boiler cupboard. That night good Edward Benton did awaiten by his bedchamber door, To hearken what menace wolde do such as that a third time in the hall. Hark it be the wiseman Abraham de Abrahams, Whom Benton then leapt out and discoverre, Who putte binbag the third in the cupboard, One on each night, That causen Hopkins quite that frite.

            It hath relented for now. Phew! That our hero thinks.

            Now behold the rider magnificent on white horse charge horizon yonder; atop the hill, beyond where the Christmas lights shine down upon the preparation of a stage, beyond where the market stalls throng. And goes forth now he, north, our hero, dauntless onto the river Leam bridge, to traverse that dark green murk; their song carried forth by north blowing wind, the pipes of the organ bewail from behind. A pale flag of gulls in high flight waves around the moss laden steeple tops, dark green upon charcoal, four, as set sail from distant ports the mighty steel vessels, that their brave sailors might wage their ways through storms and through tumult, through thunder and war, the rage of His trident, to see the frozen goods delivered in due course to Iceland Supermarket, Royal Leamington Spa, there where Christmas is, for so declares the posters. Now let us ride on, friends, to Canterbury! Ho! And as we ride let us hope to hearkeneth now to one o’ Abraham’s tales! As we wander the plane o’ mortals, let us take our direction from his words…

            Dark, an unknown hour. Distant beacon of light, red. Early hours. Cool, cold, shh. Abraham awakens in the early hours. Abraham comes to the sense of a dull grinding in his temples, he feels his eyes distended, his eyes sore. His eyes are burning sadly. Abraham drags his left arm over his chest. His skin is dry. His throat is dry and it cracks as he opens his mouth to yawn. His breath smells, his body almost smells. He reaches for his phone. Abraham has forgotten that his phone is dead. He lets its corpse drop back beside him, ploff, into the darkness.

            There is noise. Abraham hears noise coming from downstairs. There’s music playing downstairs, there are voices. It sounds like- yes, it sounds like they’ve brought people back to the house. There are girls down there. They’re all having fun. Abraham yawns. Abraham sighs. Abraham turns back on the light. Abraham wants to go to the toilet. But he can’t go down there now, no, not now. Abraham sighs again. He turns his head to the lamp. His eyes sink with his thought; both thought and eyes come to rest upon that top draw. Abraham sighs once more, then with a sort of bothered expression, as though forced to, he reaches over, drags open the draw, and raises out the pad of paper with pencil.

            Abraham, thinks. Abraham, thinks a little more. Slowly, Abraham begins to smile for the first time in days. He scribbles down and underlines a title. Abraham begins to write.

           Abraham makes several attempts at writing something, all aborted, torn up then thrown in little balls under his bed. Abraham, gives up. He tucks the pencil and paper away in their draw and switches off the lamp, tucks himself under the sheet. Dark in his room, the house is silent now but for the hum of the air conditioning high up on the wall. Red, distant beacon of light. At some point it had become silent like this, who knows when that was, sometime past. There are still some lights on downstairs, that Abraham can see by the glow of the gap beneath his door, but no, no more sound. The night is quiet. The mosquito is somewhere asleep. Abraham shuts his eyes.

           He realises, that he is much too awake now to sleep. He realises, that things will be the same tomorrow. Will will go, Will will go, now for some time. He’ll try again tomorrow; sentences for his sentence. Will will go, Will will go, and now for some time. Abraham lies in the darkness alone. The air conditioning hums. Its air is cold and dry downcoming. Distant red of beacon, light. Abraham, smiles.

            At long last ventures forth our hero into The Jephson Gardens. To his right, lapped in this green hollow of the Leamington Parade, a lake so still, so tranquil; a mirror to the heavens, of silver and silk; reflection swims in the slow course of mallards. Forth, he passes, beyond the lake, whither the trunks commune and their boughs are joined under crowns coniferous and green, and when the winds whistling current twirls through this canopy, rifling its leaves with a dirge for this another morning, another year wasted, their waste, he passes amongst those boles and steps forth into the grove. In the clearing, there stands a structure with three doors at his right. Entry to the first door is forbidden to him: an emblem of the goddess precludes it. Through the second door, the central door, he may enter; he may, though only should he wish to offer an oblation of sorts, which he certainly does not, and he does not enter through this door, either. There are a few within, he sees through the windows, some sat, some gathered around an altar of glass behind which stands a priestess garbed in black. In one of those windows reads a warning: Thieves will be dealt with! He proceedeth unto the third and final door at the very end o’ the structure, outside which lurketh a stern and sinister figure, who scowleth at our hero’s approach. Fearing, our hero steppeth around him, the crunch o’ one fallen branch underfoot, and he entereth rather festinately into that sertain plece, rather desperayt upon arayval, for wat commeth, it commeth now! It commeth ful swithe! It commeth bei the rattlynge and uery tremblynge o’ the hulls o’ those mitey scipes! Crashe over the wawes of Njord’s wroth, right sone they shal reache England, right sone, and the goodes shal be brought from thens to this toun! They commeth, the scipes! They commeth!

            Ooh! he goes, as destinies collide. The ice-land whose frozen seat his bottom meets is promptly filled to plenty. Armitage Shanks.

            Pete sits there so on the public bog, very fast unloading himself of his morning’s suffering, when he hears the door open outside his cubicle, and he wonders if it’s that strange man who was staring at him like that outside. Whoever it is, they’re at the very least rather strange, because they come to a stop right outside Pete’s cubicle. Their boots poke in beneath the door. In a sort of nervous awe, Peter slowly laughs. Uh. Hello? Do you want something? Or, just come to stand here, while I…

            After a silence, something rises over the door. This, intones the deep accent outside. This, you need. In there. Pete, looking aside and finding that he does indeed need that, clenches his buttocks and rises to take the item from the hand. Pete laughs again, more comfortably this time, as he settles himself back down upon his throne. Cheers, mate. Had me scared for a moment there. The figure outside says nothing in response and leaves with steady footsteps.

            Leaving that place himself some time later, Pete sees no man anymore outside, and he is alone. Pete wanders down a path. There stand trees around his path. Tree! Those are the trees! Good morning good trees! Pete passes the trees, the ground clearing out at either side into swathes of grass, grass green, and the lake holds itself down there in its hole, hole in the ground of green, within its ring of black-painted fence, ahead, a little to the left. Water. Down in the ground, and the water is sound, brown, the brown is sound of water pounding down from fountains brown. Dirty brown water! Yucky brown water! In ground green stands on plinth stone steele, lithoglyphised: Hand in hand we dance, through our gardens hand in hand: By hand unheld but holding. Hand. Hello, my hands! Hello, Pete! I demand you wave. You are my hands because I say so, because you point at the grass, because it sprouts of the mud, and therefore you say so for I am your man. Good morning good trees! I say let there be trees! Look! Trees! Plenty of trees! I conjure up the flowers! Here are the trees! Green leaves! Trunk browns! Aren’t you looking? See! Look at them! Let there be a lake of brown water! Let there be a sky! Let it be grey! Let there be pigeons! Let there be I! My word is all there is, and my word demands there be this, and this path, because my word walks down this path. And I demand that I leave these gardens! I demand you here no more!

            As he leaves the gardens, he passes by the fallout of some manner of accident involving a craze-eyed horse and a the remains of what must have been a stage or a platform of sorts, smashed to bits at the foot of the Christmas market, several men standing aside trying to calm the horse neighing vengefully at the pile of stage, another gang of individuals stood about gawking and filming. He looks a bit himself. He walks a bit. And soon enough Pete has made it back to his flat. Wondering why the back door is propped open, he steps inside, leaving it so, figuring that it must be open for some good reason or other. Inside, going up the stairs, he fishes out his keys from his jacket pocket, and at the top he turns left and slots the little one into the door, into the hole. He opens the door. Hmm. There is a man stood on his landing, resting one hand on the washing machine, a man who he has never before seen. The man looks over at Pete entering. Quite naturally, Pete asks, Who are you? And after continuing blankly to look at Pete some more, the man replies, He won’t let me in. Pete tilts his head at the man. What do you mean, he won’t let you in? The man points behind himself to the raised corridor where John’s room and the toilet are. I come here. I knock on the door. He say five minutes. He sit now from twenty minutes in there. Bad sounds. Evil sounds. Pete tilts his head further. Yeh, he does that. But who are you, how did you get in here, and why are you trying to get into our toilet? The man gives Pete a curious look. I am the plumber, of course. Your landlord say to me, come here, look the toilet. Plumbing bad, he say. He thinks, it is this flat. Laughing, Pete steps into the flat and walks towards the kitchen door. Well, you’re going to be waiting a while, I fear. I’ve been waiting myself since yesterday I think. The plumber’s eyes widen, and he says something to himself in another language. But, err, continues Pete, turning back to the plumber with a foot already in the kitchen, can I get you something to drink or to eat while you wait? Tea? Coffee? Err, well, we don’t really have any food, but, tea or coffee? The plumber sighs, sits down on the steps, and cradles his chin in his hand. Coffee, please. Do you want it with milk or su- Oh, we don’t have milk, either. Sugar? No, please. But, can you into it a little cold water putting, please. To make it not too hot for drink. Sure. So, Pete continues into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil, feeling rather proud of himself for having offered the plumber something. So, as he waited for the water to heat, he took out his phone and sent a message. You still coming later, yeh? The kettle ticks and the fizzing halts before the loud bubbling of liquid. He realises he only has the one mug, so takes John’s from the cupboard figuring that he won’t mind, or know, since he’s always in the toilet, and, after tipping out some coffee granules into the two mugs, Pete fills both to two thirds with the kettle then completes them under the cold stream of the tap. One in each hand, he steps back out onto the landing.

            The plumber thanks him for the coffee, and with a smile Pete turns to go to his room. Say to me, says the plumber, Pete turning back around to see the plumber’s serious look, you say, he has from yesterday in there been? This is English joke, yes? Pete folds in his lips and shakes his head, the plumber’s jaw falling. So, how can you to the toilet going? Pete laughs, replying, Well, I just went to the park then and went there. In awe, the plumber shakes his head and tuts something in his own language, then takes a sip of his coffee. Good, he says, addressing John’s mug, it is good temperature, thanks. No problem. After a sipping silence settles itself between the men, Pete turns again to go to his room. If you need anything, just knock on this door for me. I’m going to go and do some work that I’ve been putting off for several days. The plumber says finally, Very sorry for your problem. Pete thanks him and disappears into his bedroom.

            Come on, Abraham. Not for a second day. Please! Please do something today! Abraham, bare to the boxers, themselves rather airy and not leaving much to Will’s imagination, turns his head away into his pillow. Have you even opened that window once to look outside? Have you even seen outside? Come on, at least get up to look out of the window. Will draws into Abraham’s sight, opens the windows, then the shutters, and the room flushes with fire, sending Abraham’s head blasting away to the other side in powerful squints. Come on, Abraham! Please! I promise you, it’s really nice out there. The city was beautiful yesterday. And the people are really quite friendly. Ah! You’ll regret this for the rest of your life, you know: the time you wasted an entire holiday in bed! What’s wrong with you, Abraham?… We really would like it if you came out with us today. Really… Abraham groans. At least say something to me, Abraham. At least respect me enough to speak to me! Abraham sighs. Abraham! Abraham, very slowly, turns his head to Will. Close the shutters, Will. I’m trying to sleep. Abraham turns back away his head from the light. Will leaves in a huff and retreats downstairs. The window remains open and the evil heat of noon begins to boil Abraham. Sooner or later, he hears the front door shut downstairs. Will is gone, Will is gone, again.

            Abraham, rises. He’s needed the toilet for the last hour but couldn’t go whilst the Wills were downstairs. On his re-entry, he goes to shut the window, and, for a moment, looks outside at the country he paid those hundreds of pounds to visit. Hmm, says Abraham. He closes the shutters and the windows and returns to his nest. He considers writing again, and he quite wants to, but can’t for the life of him find any of the energy needed to start, so instead watches YouTube videos on his phone all afternoon again as the mosquito orbits its nothing on the ceiling above him – in the morning he’d promised Will that he’d come out if Will put his phone on charge for him. Next, after perhaps an hour and half, Abraham bothers to turn the air conditioning back on, digging up the remote from under his pillow. At some point in the evening Abraham falls asleep. He wakes up to darkness and silence in the house. The others are still out, evidently. The mosquito has gone to bed. The others are out having fun, talking about Abraham, or, worse, forgetting about Abraham. His phone says its midnight. With his phone, in the dark, he passes half an hour or so in however a way, ruminating or whatnot. After that, turning on the little blue lamp, he begins to write.

            Abraham grunts, tears that piece of paper out and throws it under his bed in a ball along with the other abortions. Abraham, relaxes. Abraham, excogitates. Abraham, does so to a lesser extent, and then even lesser. Abraham, smiles; for Abraham, is dozing off again.

            Abraham’s eye’s bolt open and he wriggles into position; Abraham takes back up his pen. Finally!

       Francois Hollande, former president of France, munching on an apple, was walking down the street one day near Leicester Square. There was a pub a little way ahead, Francois saw, The Very Big Lion, it was called, and Francois was feeling a little thirsty after such a long walk, so he headed in for a drink after he finished his apple.

‘Ello, Meester Barman, said Francois. Hello, Monsieur Hollande, said the barman, it’s good to see you again. A Guinness as per usual? Francois smiled and nodded. Oui, Meester Barman, I really need a peint; I ‘ave been wandering around oll moaning. Mr Barman took a Guinness glass from the rack on the wall behind him and began to fill it from the tap with a foaming black liquid. Why were you wandering around for so long, then, Monsieur Hollande? asked Mr. Barman, putting down the glass on the counter to let the Guinness surge and settle at three quarters fulfilment. Oh, yew know, go’ing around, lookeeng at ze toareest attractions. I ‘ave been to ze national pourtrait gallery, and to M&M’s world. I sink, tomoarrow I ouill veeseet ze zoo, look at ze monkeys and zat. But come on, you don’t need to let zat ourest fer so long, zust feel eet op now, man, and let me durink my peint. Mr Barman shrugged and complied, filling the glass to the top and then sliding it over to Monsieur Hollande. Seven pounds fifty, please, Monsieur Hollande. By cash or card? Francois scoffs at the price. But he doesn’t care, he just wants his pint. Bay cerd, please.

And so, Francois sat at the bar and drank his pint of Guinness. But he wasn’t quite satisfied with just the one, so he ordered another, and then another, and then one more, and then he went for a piss. But when he came out of the toilet, there was someone else by the bar. This person by the bar was very strange looking. They were huge, bigger than anyone Monsieur Hollande had ever seen before. They had the face of a woman, but the body of a lion, and the wings of an eagle! It was the Sphinx!

Hello, Monsieur Hollande, said the Sphinx. ‘Ello, Spheenx, said Francois. What air you ep to, Spheenx? ‘Aveeng a peint and zat? A cunning smile spread across the Sphinx’s face. Monsieur Hollande, I will ask you a riddle. But if you get it wrong, I will eat you! Francois grew so frightened at this that his glasses flew off and out of the window, landing inside a taxi. The riddle is as follows, continued the Sphinx, what are the numbers on your credit card? Francois looked shocked. Mais, you cannut ask me zis. Zat ees nut a ouriddel, Spheenx! The Sphinx laughed down at Francois, flapping her eagles’ wings, and she said, I don’t care; either you answer my riddle, or I’ll eat you.

Francois began to scratch his chin for a moment. How was Francois going to get himself out of this mess? Suddenly, he had an idea!

Ey know, Spheenx. Ey ouill make you en offer. Zer ees a casino zust aroand ze coarner. We can gow zere, end eef wey ouin beeg, yew cen keep eet oal, end yew let me go. But eef I zon’t ween beeg, zen you ken it me eensted. ‘Ow aboat zat, Spheenx?

The Sphinx considered Francois’ offer, eyeing him curiously. Hmm… said the Sphinx. Okay, then. Let’s go to the casino. If you win big, it’s mine. If you don’t, then I eat you. Deal!

And so Francois Hollande and the Sphinx left the pub and went to the Hippodrome casino. On their way, Francois offered the Sphinx a cigarette, but the Sphinx refused, saying that she was trying to quit. Francois said that was fair enough and smoked his as they talked about their favourite animals.

And in they went, Francois and the Sphinx, into the casino, bought their chips, and proceeded over to the roulette wheels. ‘Ello, Meester Roulette Man, said Francois. Hello, Mister Roulette Man, said the Sphinx, also. Hello Francois Hollande and the Sphinx, replied Mr Roulette Man. Francois turned to the Sphinx. Black oar red, Spheenx? The Sphinx considered this a moment. Red, she decided, turning then to Mr Roulette Man and sliding over a small pile of their chips. We shall put it on red. So, Mr Roulette Man span the wheel, and the ball landed on black. Mr Roulette Man took away the chips. The Sphinx frowned down at Francois and her lion’s belly began to growl. But Francois didn’t lose face. Don’t ouorry, Spheenx. Zat wes just wone speen. We steel ‘ave loats of ships left. We could steel ween big. Don’t geev op.

Just then, the woman playing at an adjacent wheel threw her arms into the air and began whooping and cheering. I’ve won! I’ve finally won big! I knew I shouldn’t have listened to them! I knew I shouldn’t have given up gambling!

Francois turns to the Sphinx again. Yew see, Spheenx? Zat could be yew. Let’s pley some moar.

And so Francois Hollande and the Sphinx kept playing roulette, and soon enough they were five thousand pounds down. The sphinx was growing very frustrated, and she was blaming Monsieur Hollande for bringing her such terrible luck. Right, shouted the Sphinx, to the fright of half the floor,when they were seven thousand pounds down, get out of here, Hollande! I’m gonna win big! Any moment now! But you need to leave, Hollande! Now! You bring bad luck to the Sphinx!

And so, alive, Hollande wandered happily back to the pub and had a few more to drink. He was sat outside sharing a cigarette with two men who worked as plumbers when he received a call from his wife. Oh no, men! Joked Francois to the two plumbers. Not zees ewld ‘arreedan bozering me again! Zee ewld boal end tsein, eh? The plumbers laughed and Monsieur Hollande answered the phone.

‘Ello zer, weyf. Ouat on erse do yew ouant now?

Francois’ wife began shouting down the phone, belting out all manners of rubbish, as he looked over at the plumbers for their attention. Francois span his finger round his temple and rolled his eyes. The two plumbers giggled.

The door opens and shuts downstairs. The others are back. Abraham panics. He must finish this work quickly! If only to have finished something.

Francois! Yew fet moaron! Ey em goaing to keel yew! Whey does eet say zat you ‘ave spent feefteen sousand pounds at zee ‘ippodrowme casino!

Francois sighed.

One of the others is coming up to the stairs. Abraham must finish immediately.

Enswer me, Francois! Yew basterd!

Well, ermm … yew ouill never believe zis, but …

Abraham finally scribble in a title: Francois Hollande and the Gambling Sphinx. Finished!

            Abraham! Abraham jolts, stuffs the paper beneath his pillow. What’ s that? Haha! He approaches the bed. Abraham coils back against the headboard. Will grabs at the pillow. Come on, let me see it! Give it here! Will manages to wrestle the notepad away from Abraham and leaps back with it into the far corner of the room. Abraham sinks his head in shame. What the fuck is this, Abraham? Will begins to laugh at Abraham. Francois Hollande and the Gambling Sphinx… Will stares at Abraham for a good forty seconds. Francois-Hollande-and-the-Gambling-Sphinx! … You’ve wasted your holiday to write THAT! You travelled half way across the globe to sit in bed and write THAT!

            Abraham looks up with puppy eyes as Will skims through his work with a stupefied look, perhaps even a look of dread. Eventually, Will finishes reading the thing and looks back up at Abraham without the least change in expression.

            What the fuck have I just read, Abraham? Why in God’s name have you sat there writing this? This is total fucking rubbish!

            Well, look, Will, I, umm, Abraham grins at Will, the thing is, err, while you were out, err, the, uhh, Angela Merkel came round with a crate of beers, and-

            Abraham. Will interrupts gravely; Abraham giggles coyly at his words, at Will’s awfully serious expression. Abraham, this is not funny. I’m really quite disgusted with you, to be honest. It’s not even any good, this- this fucking rubbish you’ve written here. What the fuck is that! It’s like something a twelve-year-old would write! What’s this back here? Will leafs back the page and finds one of Abrahams previous attempts not torn out. It’s rather short and reads so:

The Pignosis

       Little Ron Rooney with brown hair sat contemplatively in his chair, feeling his earlobe quietly. The mild light of a late afternoon in August was mostly outside, though some of it was inside, too. There wasn’t any furniture in this room but the chair. Ron Rooney called this room his ‘mind’, for without so much furniture there was more room for his thought. So sat Ron Rooney, with an earlobe and a fig.

       Little Ron Rooney consuming his fig was very afraid of pigs. He had even built a big wall around his little house just to keep the pink beasts out.

       Little Ron Rooney with bluey green eyes finished his fig and gravely sighed. He shut his bluey green eyes. He listened to the noises of outside. A car honked its horn, and a pigeon cooed, and a dog barked, and the trees were waving their arms about to make their leaves rustle, and far away an angry man shouted: “Get off my trampoline, you animal!”, and then very nearby there came a Bang! And then, Little Ron Rooney heard a pig’s squeal coming from his back garden. Oh no! cried Little Ron Rooney! This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen!

My God, is all thatWill intones. Will then calls the other one upstairs to also behold the fruit of Abraham’s literary genius. Abraham just cannot stop laughing.

            Knock, knock.

            It’s open!

            Hallo, err, you say, if I have problem, I knock this door. Pete turns around and sees the plumber in his bedroom doorway. Oh! You’re still here? It’s been two hours, I thought you’d be gone. The plumber sighs. I knock his door, he say every time to me really mean and rude things, I want just to fix the toilet. Pete squints at him. Why have you waited for so long? Really, you should just come back tomorrow, or, yes, the day after tomorrow, maybe. He really isn’t going to come out of there any time soon. The plumber sighs again, appearing rather crestfallen. You see, this is my first job as the plumber, and I wanted not a bad impression making, for my first customer, you see? I wanted really good this first job to be. Not achieve nothing. If I leave, then I have my first job really failed. I will very sad. Pete considers the plumber for a moment, feeling rather sorry for him. Alright then, I’ll come and try with you to get him to open up. He won’t, he definitely won’t, but I’ll try as well if it makes you feel better. Pete gets up from his desk, and the plumber gives a great smile. The pair of them walk across the landing and up the three steps and along the corridor until they reach the toilet.

            Knock, knock, knock!

            I thought I told you to go away! You can fix my toilet tomorrow!

            It’s me, John. And stop playing with the fucking lights!

            You’ve come back to bother me as well, have you? Go away, the both of you! I’ll be five minutes, maybe ten. Come back then. Stop being weird.

            What are you talking about, ‘weird’, John? You’ve been in the toilet for about twenty hours!

            Fuck off, Pete! It’s literally not that hard to just not obsess over what I get up to in the bathroom!

            The plumber looks at Pete, You see, like this he is every time to me. He say, fuck off, five minutes, like that, always, and he say I am weird. John gets back to flashing the light in the toilet. Pete and the plumber sigh as one, and return downstairs to the landing.

            Look, don’t be so sad, says Pete. I’m sure you’re a really good plumber. Pete has an idea. Ah! I know! I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The plumber perks up at this. I’ll send the landlord an email saying- it was the landlord who told you to come, right? Yes. Ok, I’ll send the landlord an email saying that the plumber came but couldn’t get into the toilet and that if he doesn’t believe me he might like to try himself to get in there, that John is a rather large and imposing man and one who would prove very much difficult to remove from the toilet against his will. The plumber smiles so warmly and extends a hand to Pete which Pete shakes, smiling back with quite as much warmth. Thank you, mister. You are a very nice man. I go now, okay? Pete nods his head, smiling. Alright. Thanks for trying. You’re a very good plumber, very patient. The plumber opens the door and waves goodbye to Pete. Pete waves him goodbye back. The plumber leaves. For both men, this interaction has thoroughly bettered their day.

            With a short laugh Pete returns to his bedroom and replants himself at his desk. He composes that email, sends it, and then takes out his phone.

            Still no reply. Message hasn’t been seen. He sends another message in vain: Abraham are you alive? Are you still visiting later? I hear there’s gonna be beer at the pub tonight.

            Pete sighs, returns himself to his studies. He looks at the chapter title at the top of the page at which his textbook lies open on his desk: Algebraic Properties of the Category of Vector Bundles and the Homotopy Theory of Vector Bundles. Pete sighs again, sinks back into his chair. Pete has given up immediately. Tomorrow, he says. He says he’ll do it tomorrow. Pete rises from his chair. Pete goes over to his bed, and lies down, taking from his bedside table the book delivered that morning by the postman. He says to himself: Abraham’s not coming, is he? He sighs a final time, then begins to read.            

No. Abraham did not come to visit Pete that night in Leamington Spa. Abraham opened neither of Pete’s messages until the following day, and with all manner of fantastic excuses. Of course he didn’t come; Abraham de Abrahams is a very lazy man. It’s a shame about Abraham; but it’s a shame about John, too.