#122

Toilet door closes. Lock clicks closed. Electric wheelchair moves forward a foot. Motor cuts off. Squeeking. Footsteps (three). Toilet seat crashes down. Belt buckle hits floor. Knees crack. Pissssssssss. Frrrppppphh. Pissssssss. Grunt. Hmmmmmpphhh. Uhhhhh. Plop!. Frrrpppphhh. Ohhhhhh. Oooh. Plop! Aaaaahhhhh. Toilet roll holder rattles. Rustling noise. Knees crack. Cistern flushes. Belt buckle. Footsteps (two). A cushion deflates. Motorized chair starts up...

At that point I remove my ear from the door and rush back to my position in the kitchen. When John arrives I am delicately holding a cup of Lady Grey Tea and sitting there all statesmanlike. “Had a nice shit, John?” I ask.

John has yet to make any kind of a move. He is planning something, though, I can tell from the shifty way he looks at me when he thinks my attention is elsewhere. When it finally comes it will not be a chess move, he doesn't know the Kings game. He thinks a gambit is a huge prawn. I once tried to teach him the finer subtleties of the game but he couldn't get is head around the patience nor the strategic implications of each manoeuvre. Where I was Napoleon, trying to teach him flanking moves and explaining him the importance of a strong opening pawn formation, he was like some crazed US general screaming “Just bomb the hell outta the fuckas!!” He'd have his Queen out at the earliest opportunity fucking up every opening that was ever invented. In the ten moves before his King invariably toppled he would cause mayhem across the board sacrificing all his major pieces. Battleship is John's game and even then he cheats.

Marlowe was back in the yard this evening. It's the first time he's been here since the fresh meat ran out two days ago. He sniffed around the window boxes, marked his territory on the bin bags, let out a “Wooof!” and then was gone. Tomorrow I will try him on one of the tinned Rabbit and Gravy dog foods. Maybe that'll tempt his affections back my way. Though I must be careful, John has a history of attacking the things I love and a decapitated border collie nailed to the bedroom door is the last thing I want to wake up to.

Plants, pets and possessions – those are my weak points. When John attacks it will more than likely be a well aimed canon ball in that direction. Any moment now my variation on the Petrov Defense will be well and truly put to the test.

3 comments:

  1. 'Marlowe was hungry, tired, wet and sober, and he didn't care who knew it.

    Those two fairies who acted like dames were only good for one thing: raw meat.

    But tonight the cupboard was bare.

    Tomorrow: the fish gets it


    Oh I do hope this isn't The Long Goodbye.

    I hope Marlowe isn't heading for The Big Sleep.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Hmmmm, you could be on to something there.

    Tristram Spencer: Chess
    John: Battleship
    Abigail Winthrope (Mrs): Cluedo

    Well, Marlowe certaintly does like those window boxes and fate didn't put them where they are for no reason. One sea-slug and a large blue bottle fly have already found their way into the pet cemetry.

    The Long Goodbye: yes
    The Big sleep: yes
    Farewell, my lovely: Yes
    Dennis Potter: Yes

    That border collie has some pedigree, much like little Biffy that poor brain damaged thing that you so clearly adore. Sounds like he'd be fucked if it wasn't for you!

    X

    ReplyDelete
  3. Dennis Potter!

    Oh the memories.

    Many's the night Mrs Whitehouse and I would while away writing letters of outrage to the BBC under assumed names to complain about the latest filthy blasphemous 'drama' that spilled from his rancid imagination.

    You can't buy entertainment like that.

    Yes poor Biffy depends entirely on me.

    I haven't actually seen him for some time, but I'm sure wherever he is he's being well looked after.

    ReplyDelete

 
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