The Back Garden

The garden is square, ignored but not overgrown, the grass matted and mossy, framed by an old brick wall and a high gate that leads down an alley onto the road. A discoloured washing line, strung with pound-shop washing pegs, swings over a plastic bucket full of rainwater and seich-marked earth.

The sun is just thinking about setting, the temperature dropping back down to a more realistic February chill. The back door opens sharply, rattling in its white PVC bracket, hitting the inside wall and swings to a close again.

Inside, there is the sound of a mattress sliding down some stairs, pushing the door shut with it’s weight.

There is grunting, and then the door opens again. Julia heaves one corner of the mattress and drags it across the lintel.

Julia is small and wiry, long black hair spilling from a bobble, still dressed for the office, though white trainers are on her feet. She grunts with effort as it slides down the path with a whiz. She pushes it over and it falls like a gravestone.

There, the mattress looks smaller. Six foot by four foot, when stood over, doesn’t amount to much. It would make a very small room, a third of a garage, one and a half of a bus-stops. Julia looks down at the criss-crossed mattress with eyes shrouded and a wide forehead creased. She stands over it, almost waiting for it to answer. She remembered the barbecue fluid under the sink in the kitchen, and disappears from view.

The door is left open, but opens again. Two conjoined doors become one door, though no-one is watching this break of the physical laws of the universe.

Sandy rushes out, followed by Derek, looking grey in the wan sunlight.

His shirt is wrinkled and his hair is a mess. He is sweating and his lips are pursed. He watches Sandy sniff the garden, the sickly look in his eyes growing into confusion as he sees a mattress lying on the lawn.

He moves forward to investigate, but a head bobs along the top of the wall, a woman that makes his heart beat, bend his head in shame. She wears a curl of derision on her lips, eyes full of anger.

‘You stole the dog?!’

She is quizzical and disbelieving, punctuating with a kick to the gate. He has shown his pathetic-ness so often that she knows where to come, but yet again he has surprised her with his pettiness.

‘Julia, yes, I’m sorry. Look, do you want to come in-’

Julia exits the house with the barbecue fluid in her hand, a box of matches in the other. She drops both when she sees them there, bold as some nightmare. Derek … and herself, some facsimile, a version of herself yet changed and altered. Sandy runs up to her feet and sits to be petted.

‘Keep the bloody dog!’ the other-Julia says. ‘You got the house, the car. Just leave us alone, or I will call the Police!’ She is beyond stinging parting shots at him. That small pleasure has faded after so many attempts to hurt him, so many attempts to dislodge his limpet affections. She is gone in three long steps, to a waiting car on the street, which is shockingly quiet after their explosive exchange.

Derek holds out a plaintive hand, the other on his chest, feeling the pain beneath it. ‘Wait! I’m sorry! Look -’

Derek turns, sees Julia, staggers back in the equivocation of a hiccough. Looks at Sandy at her feet, back at her. ‘Julia … how-’

Julia cannot hold it back. Shock has worn away to a melting wad of wax, a piteous finger held in the damn of her grief. She breaths hard, a gulping fish-like thing.

‘Derek?’

Before the tears come, she must get away. She can not let him see her like this. He is dead, this is a dream, a nightmare, some trick of light and wishful thinking. Her legs move lazily beneath her, she rushes to the door, slams it shut behind her.

The door frame rattles for long seconds after, there is the scrabble of keys and the triple-click of locking, though Derek can see that the door is still open. He runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. It occurs to him to follow her, catch her, face her and hold her, but like a broken toy, he knows it is too late, and that it always will be.