Visions from a Cut-out Man

By Rythmic

1

Softness. Nonetheless hardly extraordinary, the light dancing across the rifting ripples as it did every evening. A sight he had grown used to overtime, that harbour. (I must point out though, that despite his cynicism you might actually have enjoyed this sight). Especially the way the tidal breath would play with the light, and cast the mist from slope to slope. While the daily shipping would curtly push the waves aside, reaching for that grey dock, wherever it meandered to now.

Yet perhaps, well maybe certainly, he had seen it too often. To him, looking at it now was like staring at something through a curtain. Little more than a dull representation. After all it is not like it wouldn’t be there in the morning, or the next morning, or the morning after that. It’s not exactly something that could go missing, or be misplaced.

I had better stop there before I lose myself, and perhaps you too, in my own rambling thoughts and return to our man. He was sitting where he would sit almost every evening. Sitting in the kind of silence that fills the spaces between acquaintances who unexpectedly meet in the street. And on the rare occasions that his wife did join him they would talk, and by talk, more sit opposite in silence. The sort of silence that is only ever perforated by even more silence.

How rude I am for not mentioning his wife, or rather who she is, or maybe was. She was hardly a refined person, content, or at least her husband thought so, with the simplest of things. Then again, he may have had a point if her cooking repertoire was anything to go by, consisting of a range of rices, pastas and potatoes, all white and about as flavoursome as a Christmas gift from your mother-in-law. Her name, well that’s hardly important, it may have been Greek like her father’s, my memory is not what it used to be. So let me continue, his wife was a housewife in the most literal sense of the word. I’m not certain if she loved her husband, more tolerated him, and in return he tolerated her.

And, in routine, as with every other evening she would call him to his supper. There they would sit, each opposite the other, inflating the room with an atmosphere usually breathed out by the queue at a supermarket checkout. And as the time slowly ticked by he would gulp each mouth and forkful down, hoping to taste as little as possible. (Not that that was much of an issue mind you, with his plate usually covered in a grey, tasteless paste). And with luck, and I must inform you that he was a very unlucky man, he would keep his eyes down and the small talk to an absolute minimum, almost as if he was attempting to break a world record for the smallest talk ever spoken.

As awkward as this was, it was his, what he knew, the evening. That evening and every evening that would follow, maybe even every evening that could ever be conceived or at least I could conceive. Because, I must note, the evening did not scare him like the night ahead. It’s not that he was afraid of the dark. More that he was afraid of the whole night, well maybe not the stars, moon or cicada song. Yet, something about it caused him to sweat and strain. Very strange though, I find at least, considering he was an insomniac.

2

It was day, which day, it doesn’t matter. (I must say I am glad though, because it is hard to tell a story when it is too dark to see what is happening). And, just like any day, he would make his way into some office building where he would spend the rest of the day’s sunlight. York Street comes to mind, but instantly disappears again. Never mind, all that matters is that it was almost certainly across that endless vault of blue, crowded in on all sides by the sorry cliffs, each and every gazing off into the hazy distance.

He would take this path everyday, and everyday the look on his face became more and more like the frayed edges of a well used book. So that the pinstripes in his suit could be seen extending from the lines that traced their way down his face. Sitting in those recycled places, that lined the bus, he would attempt not to stare. While dodging the eyeballs from all those dappled, sun stained faces. Faces, he would consider wordlessly, not that he was a considerate man though, far from it.

His thoughts passed over to a seat near the front and a pretty young thing, and it is probably better that I don’t mention his thoughts, they were hardly pure. A pretty girl with fair features, maybe twenty, and she probably was someone’s daughter, but even I can’t be sure. In any case, I do not believe you should worry over it. A glance left to notice a young man standing, a man much his junior and with swagger that could be felt right at the back of the bus. That knowing smile, the one that hides more than it reveals, passed from the young man to the pretty girl.
“Was I once like that?” he thought, “How I have changed.” His face coming as close to a tear as it had ever come. Yet, at once it was gone, with the sight of even a homeless man trying to get into someone else’s pants, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Stop. Just for a second he noticed it. Yes, it was definitely there. He had noticed it before, but paid no attention to it. But make no mistake, it certainly was visible for a split second at least.
“Ah ha, so it was behind me, I thought I noticed something last week!” he thought, almost grinning triumphantly, “I wonder what it is? It can’t be a person, surely it’s not. No, no, it must be.”
Glancing quickly round, but it was gone, a cloud passing overhead.
“I had better tell the police I am being followed if it happens again. Ah, but I’m being silly. Ah, never mind!” And again he dosed to a blank glance out the streaked glass.

3

Atop a hegemony of toaster-like shapes arching off into the grey, echoless sky, each with their tops barely visible to the naked eye, he stood. Weeks had passed, and he couldn’t stop his mind from meandering to whatever had been following him. Even his wife had noticed the concern on his face, and she never noticed anything! He had surely aged with every word I have written, the years gathering with every fleeting glimpse of that black outline that would make but the briefest of appearances behind him.

“Why am I being stalked? I don’t deserve this!” he pondered, “By God the Police are useless, telling me I’m mad. I’m not mad! I’m being stalked for Chrissake!”
“I know I’ve made enemies, work, it’s, it’s do or die. Yes, yes. Somebody I’ve surpassed is trying to get revenge, get me to quit, to lose it and have to retire. No! I’m not going to do that, never, I’ve worked too hard… done too much… yes!”
“I’ll get them back. Damn those useless detectives! I’ll do it myself. I’ll catch them in the act. Evidence, yes evidence and I’ll get a restraining order … teach them a lesson!”

His eyes travelled a path down to the streets below, the streets where only this morning he had caught that shady figure hiding, sneaking behind him once again. Following, so quietly I might add that no one else noticed them, in the low growing bushes of the park, some park, Hyde Park perhaps, but maybe not. Yet, the moment he had turned it was gone, light blocked above.

4

Nothing had calmed him, and sleep had stayed well away, more frequent his insomnia. He had seen it, softly creeping all the past week, not once, never, had it taken rest, even on Sunday it chased! Damp, the glimpses through the mist, as broken darkness chased, unrelenting. He had seen him, touched him, well almost, that blackened image, whatever he was named. Always a step behind, slinking, placing feet with feet, colour with shade.

It had followed him here, as he had hoped; how he may have planned it in his mind.
“Yes, yes! Fool, idiot, follow me here. Ha! I’ll get you back… all the hassle you’ve put me through… Goodbye!” he whispered.
The salt breeze played its way across his body, cooling, maybe even gentle. A long sigh travelled from his lips, as he stepped out from the stone pier.
“You’ll drown fool… you’ll drown…” he thought, body limp, eyes slowly, fragilely enshrouded by the cooling, sapping waters, clasped into the grey, until there was no pain. Sad, that I did not know him.