For One Night Only
‘Shall I squirt hairspray on your tights so that ladder doesn’t spread?’ I say.

‘Why did you tell me that, Becky? I’ll have to change them now – everyone’ll see.’

I roll my eyes. ‘They won’t notice that tiny thing. They’ll be focusing on your hair – it’s massive.’

‘Is it too much? I’m not used to all this.’

I pat the huge beehive, spraying extra hairspray on it for good measure. ‘It’s for charity. You never know – you might get a taste for it.’

‘Everyone’s gonna laugh at me. It’ll be obvious I’m miming.’

‘Everyone mimes here. You’ve been practicing for ages. "I Am What I Am." Shirley Bassey’s got nothing on you.’ 

I wouldn’t "sing" in front of any audience, but I don’t say anything.

‘Right. I’m ready. Let’s get it over with. Wish me luck, love.’

‘Good luck, Dad.’ I say, patting his back. ‘Knock ‘em dead.’

Unspoken
The secret hung like a thin veil between us – yet it was in my possession. It clawed at my throat wishing to reveal itself, but to speak it would change everything. Despite my best efforts, my eyes had already betrayed me. 

Like a hound on the scent of a fox, she chased my lies with her questions, desperate to trip me up and tangle me in a web of words. She picked at the edges of my inconsistency and stuck needles in my whimsical bubbles of fantasy. I knew that eventually I would beg her to share the burden that weighed heavy in my soul. But for now, I was determined to cling onto it. 

For my secret was as delicate as a silver thread in an ancient tapestry. To unravel it would destroy the very fabric of our relationship. 

I wasn’t ready for that.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Kiss
A plastic mask is placed over my face and I gulp at the steam.

‘Slowly now. Let the nebuliser do the work for you.’

The paramedic avoids my eyes, turning his attention to the needle in the back of my hand. Coldness rushes along a vein.

Standing on my right is a girl in a blue dress watching me gasp as she chews on a nail. She knows me better than anyone; my love for Danny Boyle movies, my fear of sharks, how I sleep with two pillows, my nut allergies. 

She also knows I’m a cheat, we’d established that last week. 

But then she rang;

‘Shall we meet up? Maybe we could work through this?’

Welcoming me with wide eyes and a salty kiss I knew instantly that something was wrong.

I hadn't been forgiven at all.

I lay on the pavement as the men in green buzz around me. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, then turns and walks away.

Dead of Night
She doesn’t feed the foxes, ever. She doesn’t want to encourage them. In the dense woods to the side of her house she hears their harsh call at dead of night, along with the protracted Woo Woo of an owl.

This morning she opens the back door. Strewn across a flowerbed is a red-gold fox, probably a vixen. Legs tucked beneath her body, her pointy, soft muzzle lies on the foliage, her chin resting neatly by the side of a broken lupin. Two cats are standing guard on one side, teasing the air with inquisitive paws as they gaze on. The fox’s tail is spread like a fan. Not a mark on her, no sign of disease.

This evening she comes home from work. Gone; the Council’s duty is done. The flowerbed is crushed, there’s a long dent. After dark she creeps outside solicitously with a saucer of food.

Confession
Today the queue snakes around the font and down the aisle. In desperate times we are all believers. To pass the time I list my sins; my brain cannot contain them all. As I kneel, my heart races a marathon.
 
The door opens, his silhouette bows. I watch his lips move in silent prayer. Dust motes dance, confetti in his red hair. The scent of him hangs about us; sweat, cigarettes and spice. 
	‘Father, forgive me…’ he begins. For a moment darkness traps me; I can’t move or speak. 
	Panicked footsteps jolt me from my study. Father Duncan, late again.
	‘Jamie, I love you.’ 

I flee before he knows my name.

Intrusive Thoughts
Yeah, so I’m ordering a coffee – that’s normal. Or I’m at the gym sweating on the machinery – hell everyone sweats on the bloody machinery. Whatever, it’s all normal on the outside. But in my mind I’m picturing a train wreck; bits of shredded metal and indistinguishable biological mess, people screaming.

The thoughts just come. Today the thought is me bleeding from my face. I’ve caught it on the edge of a pig trough as a thug forces my face into slop. I think, “What if that happens?”

Sometimes the thought is my girlfriend trapped under rubble at an abandoned building site or my brother having his teeth knocked out at a bar.

I never call to check. I mean, you just can’t can you? You have to convince yourself that no one is tied up and gagged or drowning. You have to get on with ordering coffee or sweating your bloody guts out.

The Bleeding Milkman
'The bleedin’ milkman’, Nan says when I ask who my dad is. ‘Yer Mam ran off with him'. I’ve seen the 
milkman and he doesn’t look much like me. He’s got ginger hair and wears white gloves like Mickey Mouse. Never seen any blood either, so I’m not sure she’s right.

I run away with him anyway looking for my mum, hopping onto his cart while it’s still dark, legs 
swinging as we chink and rattle round the streets. I get off at the top of the estate. In the pink light of the rising sun the milk looks like it’s bleeding. I’ve drunk a pint of full fat bleeding milk and I feel sick. 

I ask him where my mum is and he swears at me. I kick him in the leg and it bleeds through his white trousers. The relationship has soured.