ONE LESS 


Grey rain persisted so there was no dawn. Instead, a lessening of night.
Sad birds crooned unseen, and a dog barked, once. In the distance, trains
began monotonous shuttling. The street was unkempt and most of the houses
were drear. Mysterious doorbells studded the porches, paint peeled around
dusty pockmarked windows, oddly curtained, and against the fencing there
were numbered dustbins with decrepit lids. An electric milkman floated,
flitting door to door. There was almost a smell of decomposition, and always,
half heard, the sound of waste flushing.

In one of the rooms the dead man woke. He lay staring at the wall opposite
his bed, a moment uncertain where he was. On the floor beside him a flat
bottle quite dry and an open book. Morning light seeped through carelessly
drawn shades. Outside, doors slammed, cars started, runners drummed,
more dogs barked, and some birds sang. There were few children.

The dead man came out and began to walk, at pavement's edge, head bowed,
hands deep, avoiding contact. The rain redoubled. When he reached the main
thoroughfare he glanced about him, watching for an opportunity to cross. A
manic pedestrian knocked him into the path of a speeding car that struck him
so hard his back snapped. Passers-by soon gathered to stare at the body
lying broken in the gutter. Those with umbrellas raised them and raindrops
sparkled on the black shroud.