POND LIFE

It was a miserable damp morning. The sun backlit sodden trees. Birds
dribbled in the branches. A cat eyed the street through a window at
No. 52. At the top of the house Sheehy lay face down across his bed.
Beneath the window a dog with his legs in the air, sharp protrusion
pinkly pointing. Kids shouting woke him. He rolled over, staggered
over to the bed, nudged, until he heard a moan. Pointing, he came
closer. Sheehy opened one eye, 'Ah, Jesus, Charles,' he said,
closed the eye, moaned again, 'No,' he moaned, 'No.'

He got up, collected towels, glanced into the next room on his way to
the shower; there was a body on the sofa. When he came out of the shower
it was in his bedroom stealing his clothes. Sheehy said, 'Leave me a
clean shirt.' He went in to the sitting room, over to his desk, set just
so in the corner. Paper proliferated, plain, printed and palimpsest. A
humming PC lit up at his approach exposing a neat text, and he gazed at
it mystified. He reached up for a book, found a page, 'Yossarian,' he
whispered, 'Yossarian'. He sat down in despair. Just as he was about to
hold his head in his hands he felt a sinister presence behind him. A
sharp pain made him wince as he realized he hadn't fed the cat. Her
claws embedded in his shoulders, he went to the kitchen. Charles was 

already there, licking.

'Coffee's on,' Sheehy called.

The body appeared wearing his last ironed shirt. Sheehy carried in a
tray. Framed monochrome photographs of famous people from behind filled
the wall above the desk and in a glass fronted cabinet on one shelf a
collection of balls, miniature scoreboard fixed at 106 and 41, and several 

gouged out blocks of chalk. On another shelf a jam of model motors
led by a green Defender mounting a white gloved policeman lying down 

on the job. The bottom shelf was stacked with magazines.

Charles came in, farted. Sheehy slung him out on his arse. 'Animal,' he
said. His brother sat drinking coffee, watching the dog in the garden.

'Shouldn't you give her a bell?'

'I don't think so, she never wants to speak to me, ever again.'

A phone rang.

'Hello? Yes, it's me, do you want ... ?' He listened. Hung up.
'She never wants to speak to you ever again,' he said, 'she's coming
over to see me and have a word.'

'She loves me'. 

Sheehy went to the bedroom and dressed, returned, took Charles' 

lead off its hook and stepped out through the open French doors. 

A blue car drew up as they reached the gate. Sheehy gave the driver 

a kiss, 'You all right?'

'All right?' She said, 'All right? How can I be all right when that ...
that ... '

'Bastard?'

'Selfish bastard doesn't ... doesn't ... I'm going to kill him ... this
is the last time.'

'Well, don't break any mugs, and mind my furniture.'

They left her to it and walked down the Sunday street. Not raining now,
the sun almost shone. Drying puddles reflected the tall houses and in
every third driveway a booted man washed a car. Kids biked about in
packs, dogs exchanged smells, cats glared and round the corner came Mrs
Smallbone, back from mass, 'Risen from your sinful bed, Michael?' 'Good 

morning yourself, Mrs.' She rolled away, led by her Pomeranian, Bruce.

The park was crowded with suburbanites pursuing leisure. There was a
round pond in the middle of a neat coppice. Fashionable fisher folk sat
on stools deploying expensive rods, thewhile ducks plopped into the
water from their conveniently located island hideaway. A man in green
bent to instruct a beautiful goldie. Charles sloped over and tried it on  

with her, but no luck. The sun had burned off straggling clouds as they 

walked over to the tennis courts, where Larkin the piebald gazehound

tried pissing on the wire fence.

"Every time", Sheehy thought. 'How are you Stan?'

'I never knew a dog so stupid.'

The dogs fell down together to rest while the two men stood in silence
as players ran around smiting mightily at balls. A blonde girl wearing
immaculate kit was thoroughly ogled. Her partner became more and more
annoyed as she trounced him. He had no style, no class, and no chance
after this and he knew it. She chased down a ball, crashed into the
fence in front of the onlookers, spraying sweat. She licked her lips
at them.

'Christ,' Stan said, 'Oh Christ, her legs ... they're ... they're ... '

'Glinting in the sunlight, a fine sheen of moisture accentuating the
muscles within, taut and hot to the touch?'

'Oh fuck me yes,' Stan said. Larkin took another slash at the fence. 

 
'Later Stan,' Sheehy said.

When they got back to the house, the blue car was gone. There was 

a note on his desk. He spiked it, turned on the T.V. Brazil. Red Bull 

looked invincible, Vettel fastest, Alonso up his arse. Charles flopped, 

the cat reclined. Outside, daylight ebbed away, streetlamps yellowed 

and Mrs Smallbone ambled homeward, Bruce in her arms.