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Blue wrists

     If you met Samantha in the pub or on Saturday, doing
some shopping in Marks & Spencers, you would stop and chat
and walk away knowing that you had just bumped into a
person who was intrinsically happy. She is of average height
for a woman, about five and a half foot tall and has long hair
which she dyes different colours from time to time. These days
she leans towards colouring her hair a rusty colour (I would
say ginger but she'd never forgive me), then again, that may
be the colour it is naturally as I have never seen any roots
showing through.
     As you get to know Sam better it gradually dawns on
you that she is content and happy in a way which few people
can afford to be. She isn't the most attractive girl you might
come across, nor is she as thin as popular culture would like
her to be, but Sam is comfortable with herself, deep down.
     She hasn't always been that way.

     I rang the doorbell again, checking that the scrap of
paper in the perspex above it did read Samantha, but yet again
there was no answer. Although the group of friends I keep is
casual (we sometimes don't speak for months, not due to any
aversion but purely because of the lives we lead), it had been
a long time since any of us had spoken to Sam. The difficulty
was that none of us knew of any reason that she could be
upset, she hadn't just broken up with anyone (she'd ditched
her last boyfriend six months ago) and she seemed to be
enjoying the single life enormously.
     I peered into the front room window but all I could see
was a pair of paisley curtains and a cut glass vase with fake
flowers in it. The flowers would have looked pretty but they
had a layer of dust across them  and looked mouldy. I'd
phoned the house a few times, but there had been no answer.
I was grateful for that as I've never been comfortable talking
to people on the phone, it's so detached and impersonal and
I give the impression I'm being sarcastic even when I am
trying to be serious. It was only really in the last week that
Duncan had been concerned, they weren't dating, and never
had been but he'd been hankering after her for some time now.
True to form it was me who had to chase her up though,
because although everyone was terribly concerned there
wasn't anyone who would take responsibility for finding out
what was happening. So that was how I found myself ringing
the doorbell until my finger ached. Listening to the dull
electric buzzer rattle on the other side of the glass. Wondering
whether she'd gone away for a few days.
     There was a path along the back of the house which
snaked between the garden fences until it came to the
community graveyard. Piles of dog crap bordered the cracked
concrete. The graveyard is peaceful, quiet and safe. Apart
from walking their dogs, young couples and old couples often
use the cemetery as a kind of municipal park. I've even seen
a group of kids playing frisbee there, but I think that they were
chastised (you can go too far you know).
     Sam's house had a gate cut into the wooden fence, and
I rattled it speculatively, but knew that it would be locked up
nice and snug because people along St. Chapples Court lived
in mortal fear of burglars sneaking in through this route. I ran
may hand along the top of the fence just to check that the over
zealous landlord hadn't run razor wire along there. I reached
up and gripping tightly scrabbled over the top. I fell like a
stone into the back garden and immediately felt searing pain
on my thighs. I'd landed in a bed of nettles and thorns. Having
hacked the offending plants back with an old golf club I found
and cursed Duncan for his idleness I was pleased to see that at
least some bit of luck was going my way, the kitchen window
had been left open.

     Inside the house there was a musty smell, not the same
as you get when a house has been deserted or its occupants
are on holiday, but a smell of life gone sour. There was an
undrunk cup of hot chocolate on the draining board, I touched
the enamel and found that it was still warm.
     "Sam." I called out.
     There was a pile of junk mail on the mat, a selection of
free local newspapers and a dead bird which I assumed the cat
had caught.

     Although everything was dusty there were clear
patches where an arm or leg had brushed against the furniture.
The television was on BBC 1 and daytime TV was blathering
along with the sound muted. It actually was better that way.
Her furniture smelt of smoke, not cigarette or cigar smoke,
but the kind of smoke you get from a wood fire. I looked at
the gas fire, but it seemed okay.

     I called out again, louder this time. I was pretty certain
that she wasn't in. There were posters that she'd brought back
from university along the staircase. The bluetak had been
carefully removed, the tears had been fastidiously sellotaped
together and the ragged creases ironed out. Each and every
one was sandwiched tightly in clip frames. The effect was
almost smart and almost comfortable.
     I looked in to her bedroom, the bed was made neatly
and the ladder up to the loft was pulled down. Ascending
carefully I entered the inky loftspace and groped around for
the light pull. I came across something furry and stiff, which
sent a pang of panic through my mind. Grabbing the light pull
I was relieved to find that it was merely a teddy bear which
had escaped from a black plastic sack. The loft was empty and
tidy (which I always find suspicious).
     At the bottom of the ladder I felt my bladder, bloated
and made a dash for the bathroom. Which is where I found
her, cross legged on the floor, her back to me. Something
brushed against my leg, I stumbled backwards, screaming and
only narrowly avoided landing on the cat.
     "Hello Mark." said Sam, pale faced and now on the
landing. "It's nice to see you, can I get you something hot to
drink?"
     "Where the HELL have you BEEN?" I gasped.
     "I just went to the bathroom," she answered, "my mind
just seems to wander from time to time."

     She was wiping her fingers gently along her wrists.
They were the same colour blue as a clear summer sky, vivid
and translucent.

©1998 Mark Sexton