Excerpts from lost novels
2 July, 2009

The sun was shining. As always. Clean, bright rays through the dusty blind, pointing at the piles of cardboard boxes, screwed up pieces of paper, dirty clothes, stains on the walls. He moved slowly, becoming aware that he was awake. His foot was sticking out from under the duvet and he felt exposed. The bed was wet and musty. He had sweated again. He remembered waking in the night, confused, flinging his arms and legs, noticing the smell and dampness clinging to him through the darkness. He had turned over duvet, spun it round with his feet and hands, relishing a dry patch and hoping his body would not melt again before morning. But it had, and he wondered if he was ill.

His hair felt matted on his forehead. His hands were prunes and sticky to the touch. His mouth tasted rancid. His eyes stung.

He yearned to be clean, to feel fresh; yearned for clean clothes and to walk outside, to go to a coffee shop and eat something; yearned to watch people chat, rush to work, idle away their lives. But he didn’t want to leave the duvet, despite its griminess. He glanced around the room and thought about what it would take to sort through everything and tidy it up.

He turned over and tried to go back to sleep, arranging his body so that he could feel the cold dampness as little as possible.

A car drove past on the road below.

A bass beat thumped through the walls.

A delivery van beeped as it reversed, its tinny warning thrown against the window.

Two men argued over who was greatest ever footballer.

A creeping fear spread through the man’s mind and his stomach slowly clenched.

He knew he had to get up.

An hour later, he stood staring at the empty shelves in the fridge and the shadows where food had once been. Water dripped from his hair onto his bare back. He adjusted the towel around his waist.

How could you have let things get this bad?

You know how.

A brief recollection flashed across his mind. He screwed up his eyes and pushed the thought away. He glanced back into the fridge, straightened up and slammed the door shut.

Out on the street, he adjusted his loose shorts. His t-shirt was baggy, even his shoes seemed too big. He felt small, reduced, insignificant. A truck hurtled past and a wall of dusty, hot air slammed into his face. He turned to follow the truck with his eyes. It pulled up at the lights, and he thought about running over and telling the driver not to go so fast, or begging him to take him with him.

He turned back and walked slowly along the pavement. A group of kids lolled by a bench, talking quickly and laughing. He thought they must he laughing at him. Why wouldn’t they? Everyone must. Maybe he could cross the road, but it would be too obvious. They might think he was scared of them and give chase. Or laugh at him even more. Either way, they would hurt him. He walked straight past, his head down, needles pricking his skin. His scalp itched and he wanted to run or cry, or disappear, believing at any second that they would notice him and attack.

But nothing happened.

He walked past three coffee shops before he plucked up the courage to enter one. There was a queue and he wanted to leave. He didn’t know what he wanted, and wasn’t sure that he would be able to stammer out his order, even if he did know. He rolled the change over and over in his pocket, trying to calculate all the possible permutations so he wouldn’t mistakenly order too much and be unable to pay. Although he watched the queue intensely, he was still surprised when the young, spotty girl with her hair scrapped back in a greasy ponytail asked for his order. He noticed a stain on her uniform. She didn’t smile at him. There was a small sneer at the corner of her mouth. He didn't want coffee anymore, but he bought it anyway.

He blew at the steam as he walked down the street. He tried not to notice anyone. The air was still and hot. Everything was bleached and yellowed by sun and blown dust. He saw a neighbour crossing the street and immediately turned down a side street, his stomach lurching. An abandoned car lay in front of him. The tyres were punctured and the paint was charred around the bonnet. He stared until he assumed his neighbour had passed and then turned back, walking straight into the neighbour and spilling coffee down his plain t-shirt.

Oh, oh, oh. I am so sorry.

The neighbour grunted, wiped his t-shirt with his chubby, hairy hand and walk on, not even looking back.

Half an hour later, his coffee now cold, he walked into the train station. He glanced up at the giant clock on the wall. 10:55. He stopped and thought of his flat and everything that needed tidying up. It would still be there when he got back. No, the flat is rented. They will clear the place out when the money doesn't come through.

Who cares? You don't even like living there. You don't live there, you just go to sleep and wake up. There isn't anything to go back for.

Better take out all your money now, just in case.

He stared at the board. There were trains to places he had heard of only in news stories or magazines. Maybe there. He could get another train to another country from there. He could leave and be no-one. No-one would know him, no-one would bother him. He didn't have his passport, but that didn't matter. He would find a way.

The sun shone on the stone floor and marked out neat quadrangles as he strode across to the cash machine. Clean, bright rays trapped dust in the hot air. He walked over to the platform and watched the train rolling towards him.