Echoes Of An Empty Box

Midnight awakenings are never good for me.

I quite often wake from improbable dreams around this time, and spend what feels like minutes shaking it off. It's an unnerving feeling, being unsure of reality, and trying to separate the Now from some darkly conjured metaphor.

So for a few seconds, I am unsure about the knocking. The banging. A gentle, rhythmic drumming, slow and deep. Like the echo of an empty box.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I'm immediately aware that I'm scared. In fact, I'm terrified. I want to turn in bed, to hear more clearly, to dismiss the sound. But I can't. Terror has me, and I feel like I did at ten years old when the gnarled tree outside would claw at my window on windy nights.

I'm cold. I can't move. But I listen.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's coming from the kitchen. Downstairs.

I have no idea what it might be. Two hours ago I locked the house up tight, same as ever. And when I turned out the light, I expected nothing more exciting than dawn light to wake me.

The light. Yes, I should turn on the light.

My hand feels clammy as I reach for the bedside lamp. I don't find it, and fumble left and right in the darkness, trying to locate the cable. I find it on the third or fourth pass and move along it 'til I reach the control.

My heart pounds as I flick the switch.

Nothing. The darkness holds fast. The power is out.

Downstairs, the thumping stops. My heart tries to join it.

Nothing. No sound. Have I shaken the dream off? Am I dreaming still?

Light would drive a dream away, but there is none. I try to remember where the fusebox is? Ah yes. With the candles and the torch in the utility room. Beyond the kitchen. Downstairs.

Then the drumming starts again, a measured and menacing beat.

My heart races ahead of the score now, playing whole bars over the slow, heavy background rhythm. But somehow the spell has lifted a little, and as I swing my legs from under the impossibly heavy duvet I fumble about for something heavy. Keys. Socks. The paperback Hemingway on my bedside table; For Whom The Bell Tolls. Ironic, but no help there.

Treading softly, I move to the chair on which I hang my clothes, and try to locate something to wear. I have no wish to confront an intruder in my unmentionables.

Nothing. Not a single item. And I know I put them there. Along with my phone, also absent.

So I move onto the landing, dressed and armed as nature intended. The light here is poor; it's a cloudy night out, and the street-lights are on the other side of the house. I can see my way, but my feet are in no hurry.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

There is none of the usual glow in the hallway. It should be illuminated from the street, but it's not. Again, I wonder if I'm dreaming. But the bannister feels solid in my hand, and my instincts tell me that this is real.

The unnerving rhythm is slower now, and closer. Louder. I find my cautious steps down the stairs falling into line with it, as if it's drawing me down. I try to stop, I want to stop, but my legs keep moving.

I have to find out. I have to know.

The hallway is short during daylight, but my steps towards the kitchen door seem endless. And always, that damned thumping.

I step boldly into the dim kitchen. I'm aware of the patio doors, the table, the fridge, the sink. I'm running on adrenaline, and my mind is telling me to run, to fling open the front door and make for the road. Though the front door is locked, and my keys are upstairs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's coming from the cupboard by the sink. I step forward hesitantly.

My mind races. What can it be?

I reach out with a trembling hand.

And the noise stops. I pause, waiting for it to start again. Time passes, hideously distorted seconds. I'm frozen in mid-reach, a solitary frame from a movie reel.

The silence is endless.

Ro-o-o-o-th, comes a low, drawn-out hiss.

The masculine voice is behind me, and I spin, crying out, my hand at my mouth.

There is a silhouette sat at the kitchen table. How did I not see him? The damned noise must have held my attention.

The figure stands, the chair scraping noisily.

Ro-o-o-o-th. The voice is familiar. You've kept me waiting.

He takes a menacing step toward me. He's tall, broad.

But he's just a man. And this is my house.

This guy has no idea who he's dealing with.

This guy is in trouble.

I raise my fists and prepare to fight.

The figure chuckles darkly and moves closer.

And I see his face in the faint glow from a high window.

Good grief, It's me. Indigo Roth. What? How can it be me? How is that even possible?

But there's question about it. It's me.

My jaw drops as realisation dawns over me.

Good grief, I'm in trouble.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

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Happy Halloween!

In Playful Defiance Of Gravity

Sometimes things are simpler than they seem.

I've never much cared for parties. Small gatherings of friends, music and snacks and few drinks? Yes. But a full blown party? Crowds of strangers, boom boom boom music and not being able to hear myself shout to the person next to me? No.

And I tell you, those badgers know how to party.

Today is Yavin's birthday, and the celebrations are in full swing. There's a marquee in the garden, and the badger world and its coarsely haired black-and-white wife is there. Glugging back the mushroom juice and slurping down the worm canapés, while their kids wrestle in the long grass.

But like I said, I'm not one for parties. Too noisy, too confusing, too much smalltalk with folk I don't know very well. But it's not some deep-rooted shyness, or a terrible social inadequacy on my part.

It's simpler than that. I just don't have the knack.

So, I've slipped out to the front of the house for some peace and quiet. The early evening is cooler here, quieter. I like it better.

In my hand is a string. And bobbing at the end of the string is a helium balloon. It's blue and made of foil, and monogrammed with the letter 'I'. I liberated it from the balloon archway at the party which no longer spells out HAPPY BIRTHDAY YAVIN.

I like helium balloons. When you let them go, they fly away. This makes me happy for what might be any number of reasons.

Some people might say it's because I'm a big kid, and like balloons. They may be onto something there, but I don't think that's the reason.

Some suspicious types might say that I like helium balloons because their playful defiance of gravity appeals to my love-the-underdog British nature. Again, these folk clearly understand something of what makes me tick, but they're wrong.

And some folk might think deeper still, and say that when loosed, each balloon carries my hopes and dreams away with it, soaring above the earth. And while I respect the sentiment, again it's incorrect.

I let the balloon go, and watch it fly away.

Things are often simpler than they seem.

I think I just like to set them free.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Butler Didn't Do It

Sometimes, you get a break just when you need one.

After some very stressful weeks getting important stuff done*, I was delighted to be invited to one of Bear's parties. He's just got engaged to his girlfriend Clarice, and I can think of no better reason to celebrate. Anyway, the pair of them love an excuse to dress up, so they decided to hold a murder-mystery party based on CLUEDO/CLUE.

[*Vague, I know.]

I just got back. Here's a picture of us, all dolled up.

(The picture's worth a click, there's tons of detail.)

From left to right:

Colonel Bear Mustard - The lad himself. Trust him to nab the best costume opportunity. But he carries it off magnificently, don't you think? The moustache was a nice touch; I can just see him sipping a gin and tonic in Poonah, India during the Reign of Victoria. And trust me, this fella can roar like a general.

Miss Clarice Peacock - Bear's beautiful fiancée. An American bear, originally from the deep woods in Augusta, Georgia. She'd not played the game before, so I explained that we were there to solve the murder of Doctor Black. For added realism, King provided a dead zebra, which he declared was Dr. Black-White, a close relative. I thought he'd never stop laughing.

Professor Indigo Plum - I dug out one of Uncle Idaho's old smoking jackets. I think he'd been smoking kippers in it. There was still one in the pocket, in fact. Luckily, there was time to dry clean it, else I'd never have got a date. On which subject...

Miss Abbey Scarlet - My lovely next door neighbour, and date for the evening. Blonde today, in a simple red t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Bare feet, as ever. Not exactly pulling out all the stops on the costume front, but every time she spoke to me I forgot my name.

Reverend iDifficult Green - Taking time off from invading Bolivia in a submarine, 'Difficult brought his own murder weapons along. I salute him; when he method acts, this guy goes deep. Of course, the Reverend's attire is his own. He's diverse.

"Mrs" T-101 White - A late addition to the party. This decommissioned Terminator has been in the shed for a while, but agreed to cross-dress to play the cook and make up the boy/girl ratio. He rather liked the idea, actually, and already had his own pig-tailed wig. Worrying. The chef's apron was another late addition; we didn't want to frighten the horses.

We had a lot of fun.

And the butler didn't do it.

It turned out it was iDifficult in the Garden with the Telescope.

Some things never change.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

It Must Be The Sunflowers

I sense her presence rather than see her. The scent of sunflowers brings a picture of a summer garden to mind, and the smiling presence of its bearer.

Hello Abbey.

I look up from the internet, and offer my neighbour my best smile. I can’t help it, I like the woman. It’s not her good looks or her unfashionably-together sense of dress, or her from-the-toes laugh. I just feel good around her. Relaxed.

Hi, Indy. Her hand flies to her mouth, and she looks uncertain. Sorry, may I call you that?

Well... I hesitate. I’ve never cared for it, but somehow it's good on her. I notice she’s gone brunette from blonde; that's good on her too. I grin, Please do. I like your hair, by the way. I’m rewarded with a delighted flash of white teeth. I didn’t hear you come in.

Why, thank you! Abbey blushes, fluffing her locks theatrically. I laugh as she makes a throwaway gesture towards the doorway to the hall. King let me in.

I frown. I have a vague recollection of stealthy pawsteps on the stairs. This is unusual. He normally crashes about, growling operatic tunes with impressive bass. The only time I ever see the house’s resident lion move quietly is when he’s about to introduce himself to a zebra. Or having just stolen one of my neckties.

He was at the door before I rang the bell. Handsome beast. And very charming.

Putting thoughts of stolen neckties from my mind, I slip Occam’s Razor from its logical sheath and offer a simple reason for the lion’s welcome. Well, he has a terrific sense of smell, I say brightly. He probably smelled you coming. Her face falls momentarily, but she rallies magnificently to the perceived slight. Hands on hips, bare feet planted squarely, her shoulders at a jaunty angle. I recognise the body language long before my gaze reaches her raised eyebrows.

Excuse me?

My mouth works a few times. I’ve not known Abbey for that long; I guess I’m still working her out. I’m unsure how to field this one, so I fall back onto good old honesty.

I just meant that you smell nice? My voice is quieter and less certain than I intended. And where did that question mark come from? I fumble about for an explanation. You know... Summery. Sunflowers. Sunshine.

Smell like sunshine? Good grief, man. Can you hear yourself?

I needn’t have worried. Abbey steps closer chuckles and drapes an arm round my neck as I sit at the table. S’okay. My neighbour plants a sisterly kiss on the top of my head apologetically. I’m just kidding. I knew how you meant it. She moves on. So. What are you doing?

I shuffle in my chair and turn the screen towards her.

Just checking mail on this dating website. My neighbour leans closer to the screen, clearly interested. I’ve been thinking about joining up for a couple of years, and so a while back I did.

A little internal voice whispers that maybe I didn’t want to talk to Abbey about looking for dates, but I’m not thinking too clearly. It must be the sunflowers.

If she’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it. Cool! How’s it going? Any luck? I experience my own disappointment instead.

Nope. Not a thing.

Really? She looks my way. None today?

I chuckle darkly, Nope, none at all. In three weeks.

What? Why?! Her shock is perversely uplifting. What on earth did you write in your profile?

Man, I’m so not ready for this.

Oh, you know. The truth. She rolls her eyes, like this is the last thing I should do. But hey, I deserve more credit than that. What I mean is, I’ve not told any lies. I’ve presented myself well, and tried to sound sane, appealing and... well, decent.

Uh huh. A few intuitive clicks on her part make my defensive mumblings somewhat redundant; she now has my profile in front of her, and is gently edging my butt sideways from the chair with a few expertly irresistible hip nudges.

Would you like a cup of tea? I'm keen to be out of the room for a few minutes. You know, to take a cold shower, or die of embarrassment. Or something.

Yes please, that’d be lovely.

As I’m boiling the kettle, and wondering what the hell she’s making of it all, King wanders past, humming The Ride Of The Valkyries. I’m too distracted to ponder whether this is some kind of leonine joke, message, insult or warning.

There's a splatter of tiny splashes in the lion's wake on the floor; he’s just got out of the shower, and is off to shake himself dry in the garden. He doesn’t smell as nice as Abbey; wet animals are pretty hard on the nose. Wet lions are also not as magnificent as dry ones, but he’s gone before I get a good look at him.

I hear the back door open and close in the utility room.

The kettle boils. I pour a spot of water into the teapot and let it warm for a minute before making the tea.

Being on the dating site has been rather a gruelling experience. A lot of hours, sifting and sorting profiles, trying to identify women with whom I might click. Then personal introductions, tailored to the profiles of each, trying to make a connection. Light, informal, pleasant, funny, interesting. Finally, the buzz, the thrill of clicking Send, and wondering where it will lead.

Sadly, it’s not been leading anywhere but the void.

Mails have been read, my profile viewed, but silence is all that’s greeted me.

If I wasn’t such a superb, upbeat fella, it could get me down.

I take the teapot through on a tray of china cups and saucers, milk, sugar and cake. Abbey is engrossed with the computer as I pour and stir. I clink the spoon noisily into the saucer to draw her attention, but it’s unnecessary; she’s already closing the lid of the laptop.

She runs a hand through her dark brown locks and shrugs, almost apologetically.

I don’t get it. Nothing at all?

I smile humbly in silence.

Makes no sense. Your profile isn’t perfect, but it’s fine. Confident, optimistic, interesting. Okay, so I tweaked a few words here and there, but... My jaw drops a little, but she ploughs ahead. And I deleted one of your photos that didn’t do you justice.

You did?

She nods. Of course. She frowns, concerned, maybe noticing my droopy jaw. Sorry, you wanted me to lend a hand, right?

Well, I’d not thought about it, but...

And by the way, she continues into my silence, I thought your mails were nicely done.

She read my mail too?

I thought you’d at least have got a courtesy mail back. A Thanks-but-no-thanks, right?

I nod emphatically. Exactly! That’s what I thought! I wave my arms, clearly more agitated about this than I realised. I understand we’re all looking for different things, but every time I hear nothing back I’m surprised. A simple Up yours, ugly doesn’t take much effort. I sigh. I don’t know, maybe it does. Maybe my expectations are set all wrong.

Abbey comes to sit next to me on the sofa and gives me a hug unexpectedly.

If you were right, I’d agree with you, she soothes, but you’re not. I’d feel exactly the same as you. It must be pretty grinding. She pecks me on the cheek. Their loss. Keep at it. You could try a different website maybe, but you’re doing all the right things. You just haven’t found Miss Right yet.

I gaze into her eyes, and time slows. And stops.

But only for a split second. Upstairs again, King starts to roar out the closing verse from Nessun Dorma as he descends the stairs. Puccini would be proud of him; the voice is magnificent and rather moving.

Which reminds me, sighs Abbey, standing, I’d best get moving soon. She retrieves her tea and nibbles on a slice of bakewell tart. There’s suddenly something awkward in her manner.

Are you busy tonight? Where did that come from? I pause, bemused, then blurt, I was going to ask if you fancied having dinner with me?

My neighbour smiles me a winner, but rebuffs me gently. I’d love to, but I’m having dinner with King.

Pardon?

My neighbour winks at me, I wasn’t kidding when I said he was charming.

On cue, there’s a polite knock at the door and King pushes it open. He’s standing his full two-legged height, his mane fluffy and unbraided; the shakedown in the garden did a better job than a hairdryer. He’s sporting a pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and my best blue sevenfold-silk necktie.

The bastard.

Abbey goes over, slightly straightens the lion’s tie, and then fusses him behind his ears.

My, don’t you look handsome? she purrs. He growls appreciatively.

I watch from the window as they head out, and sip my tea dejectedly.

The scent of sunflowers lingers in the air.

I sit down at the laptop again and lift the lid.

Looks like I’ll need to keep at it.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010