Art
Art
Art hadn’t left the house for more than two weeks. The world, however, had carried on turning despite him, and it was yet another bloody new year. He’d heard the fireworks and the celebrations in the street outside, but they seemed to come from a different life. A parallel universe. New year, but same old Art, with the same old problems.
He’d been surviving on food left on his doorstep by William and knew that, by replacing the full casserole dishes with the empty ones, he was providing proof of life and preventing William from breaking his door down. The last delivery had come with a note, however, reading: You’ve got two more days to sulk, Art. Then you’re either letting me in or I’m calling the authorities. Your friend, William xxx .
At the bottom was a postscript which had made him smile, despite himself: PS. Better to die of stubbornness or being strangled in frustration by your best friend?
It was time to venture outdoors. He needed to buy some supplies. Just the major food groups: tea, milk, chocolate Hobnobs, and whiskey. Art shrugged on his voluminous winter coat, a woolen hat, and some lace-up boots. He caught sight of his reflection in the hall mirror. He looked pale and haggard, and had grown more hair on his chin than he had remaining on his head. He was also sure he must smell, since he’d turned the hot water off to save money, and hadn’t washed for so long that he’d grown immune to his own body odor. It didn’t matter. He was only going out for a few minutes, and he would avoid engaging with anyone.
Art walked past the community center, the scene of his latest humiliation. He didn’t care now that it was likely to be demolished within the next few weeks. In fact, he’d love never to see it again. If he had more courage, he’d hide inside it and let them take him with it. Mashed by a wrecking ball. William would approve of that dramatic and unusual way to die. Better than slowly rotting away with self-neglect and self-hatred.
The door was open, and it looked as if the nursery and social club had started up again. He pulled his collar up, stared down at his feet, and kept walking. Not even stopping to look at the extraordinary sight on the plinth by the hall, which was surrounded by people taking photos on their phones. He was just glad they weren’t looking at him. How strange to think he’d once craved an audience so badly. Now he would happily walk through the rest of his life entirely unnoticed.
The supermarket was busy. Art didn’t bother with a trolley or a basket, since he only had a few items to buy. He made his way straight to the biscuit aisle. Art picked up a packet of chocolate Hobnobs then, out of habit, checked the location of the CCTV cameras. No cameras, nobody else in the aisle, except for a young mother who was distracted by a toddler throwing a tantrum.
Art opened his coat and slipped the biscuits into his inside pocket. He felt a sudden jolt of adrenaline, making his heart beat faster. For the first time since the nativity, he felt alive. Invigorated. He picked up a pack of Kit Kats and put them into the pocket on the other side.
Art walked round to the next aisle, his pace getting faster and faster. Chocolate went into a pocket, Haribo, spot cream, a scented candle, a tube of mascara, a spatula. He stopped checking the cameras, stopped looking out for other shoppers; he just kept filling his pockets until he looked twice the size he’d been when he’d come in.
Art knew what was coming. He wanted it to happen. He’d pressed the big red self-destruct button, and it felt wonderful. It was the same feeling he’d had as a teenager, at the top of a roller coaster, hands in the air, as the carriage teetered on the edge. That moment when, after a long, slow climb, you’re anticipating the giddy, terrifying, inevitable, and unstoppable rush of descent.
It only took a few seconds after walking through the exit for that plummet to happen, in the form of two uniformed security guards, one on either side, and a gathering crowd of rubbernecking onlookers. But there was no thrill in the plunge, just stomach-churning nausea and a sudden, grinding, shocking application of the brakes.
They steered him back into the shop and through a plain white door he’d never noticed before. Then they took off his coat and sat him on a hard, plastic chair in a brightly lit, sterile room as they emptied all his pockets onto the table in front of him, a catalog of shame. The carriage of the roller coaster ground to a shuddering halt, leaving him shaking and sweating.
“What’s all this about, then?” said one, waving the packet of Hobnobs at him.
“Where am I? I thought we were going to the seaside. Have you come to take me home?” he replied, employing a line he’d been given the last time he’d played a grandfather with dementia.
The security guards exchanged puzzled glances, but before they could say anything the theme tune from Jaws filled the room. They looked down at the glowing phone on the table—the one they’d removed from Art’s pocket.
“Look who’s calling!” said one, staring at the name on the screen.
“I think we’d better answer that, don’t you?” said the other.
“I’ve never seen that phone before in my life,” said Art.