Goodman 004

Goodman, closing out the world, fumbles the key in the lock, turns it, then falls back on the hard bed, exhausted. He’s spent the long day walking, Deptford, Greenwich, bloody Balham. Long concrete miles, dodging impatient pedestrians, anxious drivers, serious dogs. A stop-off in a tiny cafe down a small side street somewhere just off Douglas Street, his journey barely begun. A quick call for fuel before setting off on this harsh, bitingly cold winter day.

Even there, tucked away in the dank heat of an early morning market traders cafe, before he’s set one foot on his day’s voyage, he feels restless. His feet tap, his fingers jiggle, his head nods, all longing to be off, racing joyously through the streets of the city, leaving Goodman, the soul of Goodman, sitting wraith-like in his corner seat, waiting for their return.

He closes his eyes, remembering the streets, one after the other, a litany, a prayer to the gods of the city to bring him back safely. But then, he thinks, what gods would look after a place like this. He lays there, feeling the cold air touching what little skin he has exposed to it; face and head, fingertips. All frozen. Even under his overcoat, through the thick leather of his boots, the frost icicles into him.

Coming back from his forgotten destination, he tried to remember what had sent him on his mad journey through the streets. All the way back he had avoided looking at people’s faces, never pleasant, and into the cars, for fear that someone should catch his eye and then what? Every look, every connection, eye to eye, took something. There was never gain, only ever loss, a tiny piece of soul snatched away from under your nose without even a nod of acknowledgement. Graceless bastards. Then there were the words, always the words, bound around him like the shroud on a corpse, like the flesh beneath the skin. His. No-one else’s. Let them try to steal those, he whispers, a shiver of fear and fearful joy touching him as the sounds sibilate in the cold, cold air.

For long moments he tries to remember the last time he spoke aloud, real words, then, with a frisson of remembered horror, the memory comes to him. Two weeks ago, on his way down the dark and windowless staircase, a door had opened. He’d thought he was on his own in the place, it was so silent. Then this door. Light poured out on to the landing, illuminating the stairs with a washed out grey filter. He had been past the door, on his way down the flight, and terrified, had stumbled down the rest and through the front door into the street. Walking had calmed him, allowing him the courage to face the confrontation when it came, but since then there had been no sign of any inhabitant in the room. The stairs had remained comfortingly dark, the door thankfully closed. But the event, later that night, had caused him to talk to himself, sotto voce, in his room. He could remember that. Could remember staring at the door, fearing a knock at any moment, a whispered ‘Goodman? Goodman? Are you in there?’ Just the thought of it made his skin crawl. He’d sat on the edge of his bed all night, expecting the voice, whispering the words over and over.

‘Are you in there, Goodman? Are you there?’

Even in the cafe he never spoke, didn’t need to. They were so used to people with no English round here that not speaking was never a problem. A grunt of thanks or an absent smile were all the necessary communication skills. A finger to point at the cup, always coffee. And toast. Goodman lived on bloody toast. He turns his head so that he can see the Formica-topped kitchen table from the bed. Half a loaf of cheap white bread and a tub of cheaper margarine. A knife. Then, back there in the cobwebby darkness of the room, a cooker with two out of four rings working, an oven, a grill, waiting for the ritual, for the sacrifice; the ceremony to begin.

Goodman eases his way off the bed and shuffles over to the small window. The house he lives in is on a slight rise and opposite is a gap between the buildings, enabling him to see the lights of the city off in the distance. The street lights reflect back on to the black glass, showing him the thin covering of ice. Slowly and with infinite concentration, he uses a filthy fingernail to scratch some of it away, watching the whitish crystals fall to the sill. It is while he is busy with this task that there is a gentle knock on the door, and a voice, deep and old and male. It sounds like his own words from two weeks back, an echo, come to haunt him. Returned to its creator.

‘Goodman? Goodman? Are you in there?’