#tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

Heard By The Silence Of The Wind (A Name) The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

18th September 1970

The world felt like poetry, not rhyming, but swathed in the beauty that poetry could be. The windows were all open, except the kitchen one which was stuck fast. Tompson leaned against the side of the calm armchair, Seaswitch’s armchair, legs like train tracks pointing away from him, all train tracks pointed away- that was the beauty of them. A promise of the possibility of escape. But Tompson did not want to escape. Not today. And never, never like Seaswitch who seemed to want to escape the precautionary confines of his skin, flesh, muscle, bone. Tompson would never allow it. There was no music, only the sighing of the wind, which seemed to brush silence over the land with a motherly, calming touch. It felt like a crime to speak, a sin, but he had to know. But not now, perhaps later. He could wait for a while. Until the beauty of the world faded to a manageable hum, until the sounds of traffic breached the isolation. He could wait for a while. Allow the peace to take him

*

“...out cold.”

No more silence. The world returned in earnest. Seaswitch had piled his duvet on the floor and flung himself across it, looking like a debauched figure from a painting Tompson couldn’t remember.

“Hmm?

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Oh.”

The silence returned but it was not as peaceful as it was. It would never be so again. He’d allow himself to ask. He might even get a response.

“Seaswitch.”

“What?”

“Why are you called Seaswitch?”

There was a pause but Seaswitch couldn’t avoid the question. There was nothing but silence between them and silence had always been a weak barrier. “Because it’s my name.”

Tompson refused to give up. “It’s not your first name, and your surname’s Seaswitch-Barnes so... Why take Seaswitch?”

Another pause, but this seemed to be filled with something other than silence. It was a long evening. The time of day tainted the world. “Barnes is my father’s name. I refuse it.”

“But... Why not go by your first name?”

“Because I don’t.”

Well that was helpful. “What even is your first name?” Tompson had never heard Seaswitch referred to by anything other than “OI”, or half of his surname. Occasionally a Mr was thrown in front of it.

“I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Well, someone’s gotta know.”

A sigh. It could have almost been the wind. “If you want to find out that badly, then look on my tombstone when the day arrives. I don’t quite think that my blessed lack of identification will escape the administrative arms of Death.”

Tompson frowned. He couldn’t think properly. The words in his head felt too simplistic after the depth of the poetry. He didn’t like when Seaswitch talked about his own funeral. It was ridiculous- it wasn’t like it was a wedding.

“If no-one else knows your name, and you don’t talk to the people that do, er. Words. ... Then it might as well all be for nothing. Like your identity only half exists. Like... Like you are only heard by the silence of the wind.”

Seaswitch snorted, his lips stained with port. “You read too many poetry books. It’s probably the absinthe.” Seaswitch had been given a bottle of Absenta Montana, which he’s re-gifted to Tompson. Seaswitch couldn’t bear the taste of aniseed.

“Fuck off.”

The silence returned. The green bottle was in the kitchen. Tompson hadn’t had much. Didn’t like to mix it with Valium. Rarely had Valium. Didn’t like to mix it with life. It reminded Tompson too much of his mother- loving but distant, like there was some great canyon between them that could never be breached. Never be breached. Like the subject of Seaswitch’s first name. It would be lost to the hush of approaching night.

*

“Where did you go to?”

Tompson woke up again. He wondered whether confusion was an emotion. Seaswitch lay on his side this time, over his duvet, hand propping up his head like one of those French girls who seemed to feature so prominently in some art. Eventually Tompson built up the strength to reply, “I didn’t go anywhere. I'm here.”

“No, school. Where d’you go to school.”

Excercise books, coridoors, shoulders knocking into shoulders, cold, whistles- “Back in my town.”

“Not this town?”

“Course not. It was up north.”

Seaswitch narrowed his eyes, like a failed sleuth who’d taken to getting pissed on the job, “Hmmmmmm. You don’t sound too northern.”

Repressing the urge to roll his eyes- it was a bad habit, apparently- Tompson responded, with a mildly vitriolic tone that imitated Seaswitch’s usual tone, “ And you don’t sound like a farmer.”

“Touche. I went to a boarding school with vocal training. That’s why. And you?”

“Mother was from down south. Dad was Scottish. Accent training from some ex-teacher who lived near.”

A silence grew again, a fragile one, waiting to be disturbed. The wind picked up some energy, blew against the windows, whistled through the spiralling metal that formed the fire escape.

“What was your school....,” Tompson began, “What did you do in your school. Lessons.”

“A lot of things.”

“Just one, then.”

Seaswitch hesitated, thinking, appearing to actually take his request seriously for once, appearing to care. Eventually he spoke; “Latin. We learnt Latin. It was boring- nobody enjoyed it, but... I wasn’t bad at it. I didn’t even mind it that much. Boring but interesting. I even put a little effort in- which was a lot more than the other Latin students- so I became the best in the class. The most on the ball. That was why it took them so long to expel me.”

“Have you forgotten it, then? I heard without practice you lose languages.”

“No- well yes, you do forget but no. I don’t practice as such. Just... sometimes I think?”

“I don’t understand.”

Seaswitch pursed his lips, clearly regretting saying anything, but too far in to back out without suspicion. “When... When I think about things that I don’t want to, I think it in Latin.”

“You think in Latin?”

Seaswitch grunted in affirmative.

Tompson shook his head, a slight grin growing, “Show off.”

“Tosser.”

“Prick.”

*

“Seaswitch?”

Seaswitch squeezed his eyes shut- why did they have to keep conversing? What was it all for- really? Did it matter? He sighed, “Yes, dear?”

“Piss off. How... Do you think we’ll see- how long do you think we’ll live?”

Well that certainly was a novel and totally non-depressing question. “How long do you think you’ll live?” He countered.

Tompson bit his lip as he thought, “Recon I’ll see the millennia in.”

“Hmm... Maybe I’ll last ‘til... ’80? ‘85 if I'm lucky?”

“No, I mean the decade.”

“I know.”

Tompson spluttered, “You think you only have ten years left?! Fucking hell, Seaswitch!”

“What?”

“Well that’s a bit bloody morbid!”

Internally, Seaswitch groaned. He did not want to get into a lecture. He’d have to say something or Tompson would never stop harping on about it.

“Well, of course I’ll die. We all die in the end, nothing can stop that, nothing can change it but, I suppose there is an honour, in the manner, the time, the feeling. The same as any action.

“As a child I thought it ridiculous that for the knights in the stories, the most honourable death was on a battlefield in, quite probably, horrific agony. I thought death could have no honour. It doesn’t; only what we ourselves bestow upon it. For me, dying on the stage is the most beautiful end I could imagine for myself. Knowing beforehand that my health is not up to it, that it may well kill me, but treading the boards regardless. A passion that overcomes the fear of death. That is because, perhaps far down, that if my life ends because I pursued my passion mercilessly, hopelessly, I feel so strongly for something that I would risk death fir it; then I must have done it right. That is what comforts me. That is why I continue.”

Seaswitch didn’t look at Tompson, in case he saw that his eyes were shining. He didn’t want Tompson to see that and he didn’t want to see pity in Tompson’s own eyes. He allowed them to lapse once again into silence.

*

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The third Instalment - final part (5?)

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Tuesday 27th October 1970

The leaves were brittle and dry the day Kellen entered the building of the Mason Street flats. He was mildly concerned; he hadn’t been able to grace Tompson with his presence for a little over two weeks. Maybe more. Time wasn’t Kellen’s strongest point.

He started jogging up the stairs, then slowed. Perhaps it was too early for them. He paused, but then decided it didn’t matter– they’d probably need to be up by now. He’d always wanted to meet the much-mentioned Seaswitch, anyway.

Kellen knocked on the door. There was no answer at first but he waited a minute and knocked again. The door opened. It was left half ajar by whoever had done it and no face appeared in the opening, he pushed it inwards a little revealing a very tall, skinny man, with black hair that clearly hadn’t seen a hairbrush in a few days. It was too long to be left unbrushed, nearly reaching the man’s jaw. The jaw in question was dark and unshaven, although Kay got the impression that the man did not have to shave regularly to keep a clear face. He was pale- almost sickly.

During Kay’s staring the man did not move; he just regarded him blankly, as if unsure whether Kay was actually standing in his living room.

“So, my dear man, you must be Seaswitch.”

A eyebrow was raised, as if suggesting that he should continue past the introductions, however astute.

There was a moment where Kellen felt very small, as if faced with the indifference of a civilisation that had long ago slid into the sea. There was old time stagnant in the room. Kay ignored this feeling. “Is Tompson in then, Seaswitch?”

A flicker of a frown, mild vulnerability perhaps, and then, “Maybe. I don’t know. TOMPSON!”

After a moment a door opened and Tompson walked out of a room to Kay’s right, dripping wet and with a towel around his waist. He too looked slightly ill. For a moment it seemed that Tompson did not recognise him, his eyes were dull. Suddenly, the world seemed to waver then snap into focus; Tompson’s eyes lit up, he smiled in greeting, the edges of the room lightened, the shadows in the corners stopped flickering, Seaswitch stepped back. It was as if a huge breath had been drawn into the lungs of a drowning man.

“Kay! What are you doing here?”

It had felt like a close thing. The cracks were gone but fragility still showed. It took Kellen a moment to come back to himself. Kay flapped his hand dismissively, “Oh, you know, just in the area. I heard that bloke I sent you–”

“Talon.”

“– had, yes Talon, had moved out. How are things? ... Need I send someone else your way?”

“Uh... we should think about that.” Responded Tompson before disappearing into the room from whence he came.

Seaswitch stepped into his field of view again. “Do you want... a glass of wine?”

Kay huffed in amusement, “Ah, it’s eleven.”

This did not have the desired effect.

“In the morning.” Kay clarified to the deadpan expression in front of him.

“Is it. Tea?”

Kay beamed and thanked him. After a moment, Seaswitch smiled slightly too, as if unused to it, shyly almost.

“I’ll have one too. Think the milk needs using up.” Called Tompson from what must be the bathroom.

* * *

Friday 30th October 1970

“What’s this bloke’s name again?”

“Uhhh... Geoffrey?”

“Helpful.”

“Oh, what.”

“You said his name was Arnold last time I asked!”

“I can make mistakes! Everyone makes mistakes!”

“Hmmm, yes,” Seaswitch drawled mordantly, “I’m sure Geoffrey-Arnold-Barnaby-Humphrey-Eugene also makes mistakes.”

Tompson rubbed his eyes and groaned, “Piss off.”

Seaswitch rolled his eyes, “You should get something for your head.”

Tompson did not respond, having stated earlier that nothing but knocking himself unconscious with a brick would make the headache leave before it wanted to. Seaswitch had offered to get the brick.

They melted into silence again.

The church a few streets away started tolling the hour.

“He’s taking ages, isn’t he?”

“Shhhhh.”

Time appeared to be taking a break, stretched out on the living room floor under Tompson’s chair like a cat or a drunk. Or a drunk cat. Tompson wondered whether cats could get drunk.

A knocking commenced on the door; something smashed. Almost sheepishly, the door swung open, revealing a light blue tank vest over a cotton shirt, several cardboard boxes piled haphazardly in studious arms, a smashed plant pot on the floor that contained an impossibly wilted Aspidistra, a pair of round spectacles and a very enthusiastic face.

“Hi! I’m George– you must be Mr Tompson and Mr Seaswitch-Barnes.”

Seaswitch... didn’t quite know what to make of George. This was exactly how he’d imagined a student to look like. “How... How old are you, George?”

Some of the enthusiasm dimmed; George had seen the state of the flat. Despite Tompson’s half-hearted attempt to clean, it still looked as if a tornado had decided to screw a twelve by eight space. “I’m twenty– nearly. Next month. I’ve already agreed everything with the landlady.”

“What– Vivian?!”

George very clearly refrained from raising one eyebrow, so much so that he might have had an aneurism if he didn’t loosen his face. “Mrs Callow, yes.”

“Right.”

“As I was saying, I have everything sorted with Mrs Callow, I have all my things here, once I’m finished unpacking I suggest we draw up a rota for the things that need doing here. Clearly this place needs a... clean. No doubt you’ve been very busy with your jobs. I brought a camping bed like Mr Striptson suggested... Where do I sleep?”

Tompson stepped forward, slightly mentally off balance; this student– an English student for chrissake– was more organised than them. Tompson was four years older than this lad, and a literature student had his life more in order. Well, Seaswitch was in a worse state comparatively; Seaswitch was 27! This... This... child was... Mentally, Tompson took a calming breath.

“Yeah, you’ll be here, in the living room. I suggest this corner, near the window. There’s a fire escape. Don’t use it.”

“Unless there’s a fire.” George inputted with a helpful nod.

“”Uh... Well, if you’d prefer the impact to the flames then sure! That’s up to you really...” Tompson smiled. George did not.

“There’s a rota for wine buying.” Seaswitch lied, quick off the draw.

“Oh, I don’t drink.”

“Oh,” responded Seaswitch, frowning briefly as if trying to understand, he gave up and more of a sly smile lurked around his features, “Good!” More for him, really.

“So,” began Tompson, clearly looking for a conversational common ground, “what do you like, er, in your studies, or whatever else you do. Favourite book?”

“Um, okay, so,” began George, who did not stop talking until half an hour later.

* * *

Saturday 30th October 1970

Seaswitch was woken by a scream coming though the wall. Barely awake, he and Tompson united stumbled through the door into the living room only to find the camp bed deserted and the kitchen unlocked. Without a thought spared to his safety , Seaswitch charged in. Tompson stood outside, still mostly unwilling to enter. It was too early in the morning to be mauled for the sake of heroics. For a moment there was stillness and silence before Seaswitch and, clutching a terrified looking George.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

The student was a little dazed as he answered, “... I was trying to make us a fruit salad for breakfast...”

Tompson stared at him, overcome with how... nice George was, and it made a sweeping guilt shake him. George looked so scared and confused, like a small kitten in an unfamiliar environment owned by an intimidating taxidermist. Without thinking about it much Tompson patted George awkwardly on the shoulder. He still looked shaken up. Seaswitch rolled his eyes at Tompson’s stunted attempt at comfort and hugged the terrified student.

“Go and sit down,” Seaswitch instructed, “I’ll get you a hot chocolate.”

Tompson raised an eyebrow. Seaswitch had never been this nice to him. Then again, if he had, Tompson would have taken the piss out of him. It was just as well really; they would never have been as close as they were if Seaswitch hadn’t always instinctively distanced himself from 99.9% of all human beings. Excepting publicans, of course.

* * *

It took George a few days to settle in fully. He created a rota. Seaswitch did not like the rota. Tompson did not like the rota. The only person who did like the rota was George, because he had made it. After the first week, the living room carpet was visible, all the empty Mr. Bubble bottles had been removed from the box in the bathroom, the cracked windowpane had somehow been fixed while Seaswitch had been chasing an audition and Tompson had been shifting crates into the Thatcher’s Arms. George didn’t comment on how it had been fixed. Tompson went through all the letters on the table in a bid to find out how– he’d been reading a lot of mystery and crime novels recently. All in all, things settled down, Well, as settled down as they could be. For a while, at least.

* * * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Greater-Spotted Job Seeker

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Period attitudes

The Greater-Spotted Job Seeker

Wednesday 15th July 1970

The suit felt too tight around his upper arms. Tompson fidgeted in it, clearly wishing to be in something more comfortable- like a bed. Even though it was- ridiculously- early, the street was rife with businessmen and other people who wore suits. He wasn’t sure what suit-wearing-non-businessmen actually did for a living. He imagined eyes fixing on him, his choice of clothes and the contents of his head. He felt like an idiot- Why couldn’t he be like Seaswitch and believe that they were thinking something nice? Bloody Seaswitch. Always getting in his way, finding reasons that getting a job was a bad idea, trying to convince him that all the women he met weren’t interested. They couldn’t all be lesbians! Since Tompson had moved into the flat share two years ago, he hadn��t been able to meet any women who were willing to stick around. They all appeared interested in him at first but then Seaswitch would tell him that they had a boyfriend, or something similar. After that, Seaswitch would have a quiet word with the girl in question and she would lose her interest in Tompson and would then usually take Seaswitch home or would leave with her friends, abandoning the both of them. He was so confident in himself, it was infuriating! Tompson’s righteous anger faded. He always felt uncomfortable after thinking badly of Seaswitch. He remembered when Seaswitch had come back to the flat after The Incident, drunken and sobbing. Actually crying, not crocodile tears. His confidence hadn’t been there then. Tompson had never asked what had actually happened that night as Seaswitch slunk, red eyed, into the bedroom. He was too worried about the answer.

Tompson was shaken out of his musing by a low-voiced woman shouting at him. She had scruffy, long blonde hair and a beard- It was, in fact, a man. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to his surroundings and had bumped the man’s guitar case. Tompson was too preoccupied with not being late to listen to the exact words but he got the impression that the tosser was pissed out of his skull. He heard the words “antidisestablishmentarianism”, “system” and “capitalist”. He wasn’t sure what they had to do with anything. Eventually he heard “you wanker” and immediately felt relieved. He understood that sentiment at least. He walked on, aware of the unusual nature of time and how it disappeared when you were least expecting it.

A suit passed too close to him and he choked on the overpowering aroma of Brute. It made his nose unblock and the smell of the street rushed in; cigarettes, bread, something spicy- that could be the restaurant next to him- and the occasional bin. Lovely. His stomach rolled slightly. A mild hangover coupled, unfortunately, with Seaswitch’s culinary disaster from last night. The worry plaguing him about the imminent interview didn’t help. An interview that he had to get to in five minutes by walking through ten minutes of town. Shit. Maybe he would be spared from the embarrassment if he didn’t turn up and went straight to the pub instead. It wouldn’t be open. His timings were off because he was unused to being a functioning human being this early in the day. Seaswitch probably had never been a functioning human being in his life; when Tompson had left the flat, Seaswitch had been trying to fry an egg with a cigarette lighter, for Christ’s sake!

Tompson suddenly realised that he really didn’t want to go to the interview- it was in a garage and he knew fuck all about cars anyway and bloody Seaswitch had taught him how to drive! He remembered parts of that day in vivid detail, and other parts... not so much. It had been before The Incident, so Seaswitch’s family still talked to him, and Seaswitch had ‘borrowed’ his father’s car. Seaswitch had been shocked to learn that Tompson did not know how to drive, and had vowed to teach him in return for a few pints. Unfortunately, Tompson had paid him in alcohol before learning on the back roads around Seaswitch’s family home in the country. This left them inebriated and slightly lost and they managed to drive the Austin A40 Farina through a gate and into a Massey-Ferguson. Mr Seaswitch-Barnes had not been pleased and had threatened to get Seaswitch’s cousin, Cecil, to arrest the pair of them. Luckily Cousin Cecil was in France on his honeymoon, so Seaswitch’s father had passed the situation off as “boys being boys”. Mrs Seaswitch-Barnes always had had a soft spot for Tompson and actually baked him a pie in celebration of his scraping through his driving test. Her husband disliked both of them, however he found himself unable to truly hate Tompson. Most people never had strong feelings for him either way, which, he supposed, was lucky. Seaswitch had never liked that Tompson knew his parents. He was relieved that Tompson would never meet his older brother, Matthew. The only relative, who still spoke to Seaswitch, was his grandmother Betsy. Seaswitch preferred the grandmother on the other side of his family tree, Aggie. They would only talk if he were to invest in a Medium and an Ouija board.

According to Seaswitch, Betsy, when she died, would tell the devil how to do his job. She knew nothing about acting, or in fact his way of life, yet she would not stop lecturing him. For some crazy reason, despite Seaswitch’s distaste for her, Betty actually considered him the best grandchild. If that way the case, Tompson thought to himself, he wondered what that would mean of Matthew. Seaswitch’s family tree was growing hazy in his mind. And he had no clue where he was. He’d been walking as he thought to himself and now he was in a grotty looking alley. Bloody hell.

As alleys went, it wasn’t too dirty, although there was something that whispered ‘ill repute’. It lurked. It was darker than Tompson would have thought possible for the time of the morning. It was the type of alley that c-roads would have nightmares about, if, of course, roads could dream. The anxiety seas of his mind were preparing to whip up a storm, ranging from homicide to tetanus. Before he could panic too much, a voice called out from the darkness.

“Oy, kid.”

Too terrified to run, Tompson turned around with a megawatt beam plastered across his face. His hands shook and his voice wobbled slightly, “Uh, hello.”

The man who stepped out looked like a pit-bull. Actually, that was offensive to dogs. T he man looked like he spent half his time having his face rearranged by angry fists, and the other half getting revenge. His chewing-gum face pushed itself into an approximation of a smile. “Fought I knew you, kid. Seaswitch’s ... Bruvver? Friend? Friend. ”

Oh shit. Seaswitch probably owed him money, or had slept with his wife, or.... He didn’t actually know what Seaswitch got up to. God, what could that bastard have done to get his flatmate accosted in an alley?

“U-uh. I-I’m Tompson. Uh, I mean, Peter Tompson, er, sir.”

The man laughed. It was a throaty gurgle that made Tompson remember that he needed to get some drain cleaner for the bathroom. The man’s accent had clearly visited every place in Wales and the north of England and had ransacked a part of each dialect.

“Huh... Well you’re a bloody good player, fast on yer pins.”

Oh, ha, bloody, ha. Tompson had heard jokes similar a hundred times.

“Don’t worry,” The man continued, scratching his nose and striking a match against the wall, “I knows who you are. M’name’s Barry the Bleeder. I own... ‘s not really a casino- ain’t got the class nor the licences. The Cabarenza.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of it.” Tompson decided that he would deploy manners to keep the nutter happy, just until he could run away. Barry the Bleeder lit what could be a cigar, if cigars were triangular.

“Don’ worry yerself. Jus’ never thought I’d meet you, is all.”

“If Seaswitch has done anything to upset you, I’m sorry. Just please don’t take it out on me.” Tompson quavered, his voice several octaves higher than he would like.

The man laughed again. “I like you, kid, you got some balls, but enough brains not to loose ‘em. Nah, I ain’t got no trouble. You’ve been good to him. He talks about you a lot, you know. A good influence. ‘E said you was looking for a job? Call me if there’s none else.”

Barry handed him a card and, with a large puff of smoke from the odorous cigar, disappeared down the alley. It wasn’t so much a business card as a typewritten note on thin paper.

Barry Bleederson, Manager

The Cabarenza

13 Bath Street

07766931463

‘Another Challenge?’

Tompson’s heart stopped hammering after a minute. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on and despite what Barry the Bleeder had said, he still didn’t trust him. However, a job’s a job. He would call up in a week or so to see what it was about. He considered talking to Seaswitch but knew that he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of the cryptic bugger. He’d have to wait until he was ridiculously drunk; normal drunk was never enough to Seaswitch to let his guard down. He would have to pay for the rounds at the pub; he could feel his wallet shudder.

* * * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Lesser Spotted Job (pt.1)

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

The Lesser-Spotted Job - was too long to fit in :) just as well. Think this is the longest thing I’d ever written. The one I’m working on at the moment is a few pages longer. 22 pages or therabouts. Been working on ‘stamina’ . - period attitudes- stalker behaviour- miscommunication as ever- language - attempted murder-

Tuesday 4th August 1970

It could have been afternoon. Seaswitch hadn’t looked at his watch in ages- he hadn’t seen it either. Perhaps someone had stolen it. That didn’t bother him too much; he had stolen it himself, from his younger brother, Mark. It was ridiculously hot and Seaswitch longed for the calmer atmosphere of night. Tompson was taking a nap in the bedroom and Seaswitch didn’t want to disturb him. Not out of decency but because Tompson was a little demon if some unsuspecting soul woke him up when he’d actually managed to get to sleep.

Seaswitch was incredibly bored. The last time he’d been this bored he had jumped out of a window to see what would happen. And to test the theory he’d always entertained that he could, in fact, fly but just had never been brave enough to face the consequences of his theory being a load of shit. That had been six months ago, when he finally worked up the Dutch courage and remnant boredom to try. He’d only fallen a floor though; flat 5b had a balcony.

The main problem was that he couldn’t do anything interesting without waking Tompson up. After attempting to read one of Tompson’s boring books on cookery- that a relative clueless of their combined cooking skills had probably gifted him- he decided to take a look in the drinks cupboard. There might be something interesting there. Tompson had started finding lots of bottles half price because the labels were torn off. If was always intriguing discovering the contents of the bottles- usually wine, although there were occasionally miniature bottles of spirits, the type to be stolen from mini-bars.

Seaswitch unlocked the kitchen door. By unspoken consensus they’d agreed to keep it locked when not in use. Seaswitch was worried about the thing migrating to another part of the flat. The room seemed to shift focus slightly as he entered, the corners shrinking out of sight as the stove loomed. Only one of the rings worked- back left- and one of them would shoot gas at random. They’d fixed the problem by hitting the faulty dangerous ring with a hammer. It didn’t do anything now. It would be impossible for that ring to do anything again, unless the largest of the dents were to be used as a bowl. Seaswitch opened the drinks cupboard. It had been two cupboards side by side but he’d knocked the dividing wall out a few weeks ago. Tompson now had to keep his plates on top of the cabinet.

Seaswitch picked a label-less miniature bottle with red glass. It looked... interesting. More than interesting. Mysterious. Thirsty, he tore off the green top and tipped it out into his gaping maw. The taste was odd, it took a few split seconds to register then it was- HOT His mouth was on fire it must be poison Oh god it hurt The wordless scream that did not hurt his throat because the liquid was doing too good a job at that He was crying He was going to die Here Alone In a kitchen with something that would probably eat his corpse once it came out from under the cooker Unless whatever he had swallowed would eat him from the inside first Oh God Oh God Oh-

The door was flung by Tompson, who carried up a rolled up newspaper in his hand. “What happened? –Where’s the thing?” He screeched, his face mirroring Seaswitch’s terror.

Some of the oral heat faded. Seaswitch’s voice came out husky, as if he’d inhaled the smoke from a bonfire. Or perhaps inhaled the whole bonfire. “V..v..n... poisoned me. M’ dying.” He rasped unintelligibly.

“What?”

“With this...” Seaswitch limply pushed the half-empty bottle towards the man who he would share his final moments with. A light filled the room. This must be it, Seaswitch thought.

Tompson sniffed the bottle and winced, “You’re not dying.”

Tompson, Seaswitch felt, did not understand. The whole room was bright, he could hear distant music playing and the pain was fading. Soon, he would head to the theatre in the sky. He closed his eyes.

“You’re not dying. It’s Tabasco sauce. – I got it half price- the label’s been torn off. You’re not dying.”

Seaswitch opened his eyes. The kitchen light had been switched on and the hippies next door had put their radio on full volume to muffle his screams. They were either concerned, and he’d be expecting a visit where he’d have to explain himself rather embarrassingly, or they thought he had company and was not in pain, or in need of a visit. He hoped fervently that they wouldn’t visit- Seaswitch did not care if they thought he screamed during sex- he was too glad to be alive!

“Tabasco?” Seaswitch asked, partway between a groan and a whimper, “Why the fuck do we have Tabasco?”

Tompson shuffled his feet but met Seaswitch’s eyes with confidence, “I thought it would scare away the thing.”

While Seaswitch honestly believed in the thing, he had never said so to Tompson and did not want to be seen as the type of person who would believe in the glowing eyes from under the stove while sober.

“What thing? You’re being ridiculous.”

Tompson looked confused and sheepish. “Haven’t you seen it? I thought that’s why you lock the door...”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re...” A low growl sounded from beneath the oven. A rustle. The noise came again, but this time from under the fridge. It was getting closer.

“Was that...?”

“... Yes! MOVE!” yelled Seaswitch, his pride and the burning forgotten, “It wants flesh!” The speed with which they collectively moved would put Olympic sprinters to shame. The door was shut and locked in seconds, with them on the other side of it. Something slammed into the wood.

“We’re not going to talk about this to anybody else,” Seaswitch warned, breathing heavily, “Because they’d think us mad.”

*

They were lying on the carpet, passing a cigarette between them, Seaswitch with his usually slicked back hair mussed from constantly running adrenaline shaking fingers through it as he waited impatiently for his mouth to cool down; and Tompson, who, for once, looked more relaxed than his companion.

Tompson felt that they looked like characters from a film, bonded like trauma. It was a little overdramatic, he thought. He was actually surprised at how calm he was, as if he were the ocean and Seaswitch’s panic just a small fishing boat bobbing against his surface. It was an odd analogy which he soon tired of. Seaswitch looked haunted and his voice was scratchy- reminding Tompson that he needed to get some steel-wool piling up in the sink.

“You know.... I actually thought I’d been poisoned.”

Tompson snorted, “Who’d care to poison you? Done a good enough job of that yourself...”

Seaswitch scowled, “Vivian would. It’s the way she looks at me- Subtle things... You need intelligence to catch it...”

Tompson abstained from rolling his eyes, barely. Seaswitch had caught many things during his life, and none of them had required any form of brain power. Tompson couldn’t imagine Mrs Callow killing anybody. Well. There was the death of her husband but they couldn’t find any information about that, which Tompson took as a good sign- No news was good news, after all. This was the real world; there were no femme fatales, or just women who were fatal, there were no crimes of passion, people did not kill their husbands, crime wasn’t a thing, politicians were trustworthy- oh god. Who was he kidding. Reality just did not stick to him. Tompson felt that he, Seaswitch and the flat put together were an equation for disaster. They were a magnet for odd happenings. A cyclone was beginning to stir his ocean of serenity. He ignored it and focused on what Seaswitch was saying. He was rambling and slurring slightly- the adrenaline was wearing off and paranoia lurked in his eyes; the aftermath of the night before.

“’T’s like I said earlier- there’s something wrong with that... fridge.”

“It’s not a fridge. It’s just a warm freezer.”

“Precisely! I talked to a... person who said that it was impossible. One, it shouldn’t function without the fridge part and... they usually can’t work upside down b’casue of... mechanics, or something other.”

“And?”

Seaswitch leaned forward, his eyes flashing with emphasis as he moved his arms in a way that was supposed to illustrate his point, “Well, how is it working? Things like that shouldn’t happen, idiot. ‘parrently it’s impossible!”

Tompson sighed, the conversation was beginning to wear on him, “Don’t you remember? Last time it broke you tried to fix it yourself.”

“Well where’s the problem with that?!”, Seaswitch blustered, pride throbbing.

“You know absolutely nothing about technology! Last time you tried to fix wazzizname’s car, it started driving backwards!... You probably put the tubes the wrong way up- I don’t know!”

“Okay, okay- Christ! What’s got you in a mood?”

Silence. “Nothing.”

Seaswitch, ever one to avoid having a meaningful heart to heart with anyone, abruptly stood up, “Right. Good. Okay-”

“I just...” Tompson sighed, his voice laden with an unsaid problem. Seaswitch also sighed, this was going to be a long, dull conversation, he could see it coming. “I just wish I had something to do. I’m so... bored- everything feels dull.”

Seaswitch thought for a minute. This was the part where, as the slightly older and therefore wiser one, he was supposed to give advice. “Well.... Get a girlfriend or a job.”

Tompson looked up at him like a kicked puppy. Seaswitch suddenly remembered the Rosalind, or Rose, or whatever her name was fiasco, and wished that he hadn’t mentioned the girlfriend part. Tompson always got hurt by women, it was almost ridiculous. They slept with him, probably for being shy or sensitive or something that women apparently liked, and then didn’t want anything to do with him. And Tompson, usually during the course of one night, would believe himself in love with the woman in question. He would pin all of his emotional hopes and dreams on them. This is why Seaswitch didn’t do relationships. In fact, he usually avoided women altogether. Beauty was spelt T R O U B L E- they always caused problems. Perhaps if the women who slept with and would later break Tompson’s heart, told him that sex was all they were interested in, perhaps he wouldn’t get so attached. Seaswitch was sick of hearing that all men wanted was sex. It made Tompson look pathetic. And therefore made Seaswitch look pathetic by association.

“Well... What happened to that job interview you went to?”

“I didn’t go...” began Tompson, but then he seemed to remember something. He walked over to the coat rack- a few nails hammered into the walls by a previous occupant- and pulled something out of his coat pocket along with a snowdrift of receipts and ticket stubs. “Do you know someone called Mr Bleederson? Or... Barry the Bleeder?”

Seaswitch looked a little confused before the meaning of the name dawned on him. “Ah! Barry! Yeah, why? Did you see him?”

Tompson tried his best to remember the events of Wednesday the 15th of July. It was hazy, like the rest of his memory. He blamed Seaswitch for that. He was the reason that Tompson couldn’t remember the last two of his birthdays and the last four New Year’s Eves. It was easy for Tompson to blame things on Seaswitch because, as far as he was concerned, it was Seaswitch’s fault. Once his memory actually worked, he explained about how Barry had found him and offered him a job. “I just thought I’d ask you about him, because he seemed... Well, dodgy.” He finished, watching Seaswitch’s expression closely.

“Barry... Uh... I knew him before he bought that club. He looks shady but he’s... not that bad.” Seaswitch paused thoughtfully. Tompson was relieved. He had been worried that it would take pliers to drag the truth out of him. Seaswitch nodded once to himself, an unrelated jerking of the head that gave the effect of him responding to someone Tompson couldn’t hear. He continued, “He has this... thing. He always knows where to find you- You’ll get used to it.”

“So... I should accept the job?

“Mmmmhmmm, yes. It should be fine. Just, uh, if he offers you a cigar- one of those weirdly shaped ones- don’t take it.”

Tompson frowned at this peculiar piece of advice, but Seaswitch was acting peculiarly as well. He thought it might just be embarrassment at loosing it in the kitchen, or possibly some more stray effects of whatever they’d taken. While it was similar to the way Seaswitch usually acted when he was hiding something, Tompson wasn’t too worried. Whatever he was holding back couldn’t be that important. Tompson carefully read the number. There was a telephone box at the end of the road. Tompson grabbed some change and left Seaswitch lying on the carpet, a cigarette stub turning to ash between his fingers, his mind turning in circles, thoughts floating upwards with the smoke.

* *

Tompson returned to the flat after two hours. He’d been inside the phone box about to call when The Bleeder himself knocked on the window knocked on the window and asked if he’d thought anymore about his job offer. He’d then been coerced into a tailors and informed on his job and what he was expected to do. The job, as far as he was aware, didn’t have a title and he’d certainly never heard of it before. Luckily, it involved acting. He would go up to the poker tables, act like a drunk beginner, loose some money (club money, not his own) and then introduce a “novice friend” to the table who would win back the money lost and more. It was supposed to draw the players in, by giving them a taste of winning, apparently. Tompson would start on Friday night. Barry had bought him a suit.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the flat was a burning smell- some bread had been left under the grill- and the second thing was that Seaswitch was not there. There was, of course, no problem with not being there- he had his own life after all- but Tompson could not help but be slightly confused. Seaswitch had seemed unsettled- and they never really went anywhere interesting without each other. Not because they were overly fond of each other, but because Seaswitch didn’t like talking to people when he didn’t want to and Tompson was usually too worried about offending someone if he were to strike up a conversation. Not that he’d admitted that to Seaswitch. He pretended to be willingly antisocial- and pretentious- like Seaswitch. He was shaken out of his musing- it seemed he was always being shaken out of his musing by something or other- by the roar of a car well over the speed limit as it raced down the road.

*

Seaswitch was walking back towards Masons Street after having paid a visit to Young Ollie from their last performance. Ollie had introduced him to a friend of his, a smiley Welshman called Gale. He turned out to be the same Welsh Gale that Seaswitch already knew- a mop of blonde hair and eyes that laughed at a private joke. Seaswitch found him interesting. They had planned to meet at the pub sometime in the next month. Seaswitch stepped out to cross the road when a dark green car came screeching around the corner. Seaswitch moved back but the car continued to turn until it was aiming directly at him. Headlights glaring in the gathering darkness, the grille of the car speeding towards him, the Audi logo imprinting on his mind- he dived out of the way. As the red lights receded into the distance, his shaken mind could only think about the only person he knew to own an Audi F103. And Mr Callow was dead.

*

Tompson had just settled down with a cup of tea when the door was flung open. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light in the hall, was a tall swaying figure who gibbered softly to himself. Seaswitch stepped forward in to the living room light. To say he was pale would be an understatement.

“Seaswitch? Are you-“

“Get. Me. Some. Booze.” Seaswitch’s voice was harsh and rough against the soft jazz of next door’s perpetual radio. Tompson acquiesced and grabbed a half-empty bottle of Cold Duck that had been left on the counter. He blinked and the bottle was suddenly empty and being handed back to him by a spectre-like Seaswitch.

“What happened?”

Semi-sane eyes rolled until they were pointing at Tompson. “Mr Callow is trying to kill me.”

“What on Earth- He’s dead. Seaswitch, have you taken something?”

“I know he’s dead! His car just chased me down the bastard road! I am not losing my mind!” A shaking fist with the index finger pointing along with his emphasis. Seaswitch looked really shaken up- Tompson was worried. He’d been mostly fine two hours ago, now he was almost crying.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I was nearly run down with Mr Callow’s car! He must have found out about us skimping on the rent in the afterlife.” Seaswitch whimpered, clutching his arms around himself. He looked like a nutter- or someone who got para instead of high.

Tompson’s voice was strained slightly with worry as he tried to calm down the human wreck in front of him. “Mr Callow isn’t the only one with a dark green Audi.”

Seaswitch actually snarled at him, “It had the same crack in the headlight from when I drove it into a post-box!”

Tompson suddenly remembered, and spoke without thinking of the consequences, “Mrs Callow got it in the will!”

Silence. Sudden, terrifying sanity filled Seaswitch’s eyes, and he replied in a scratchy whisper as a thin line of blood trickled down from his scalp, “That’s it. I was right. She’s trying to kill me. She’d a murderess. And she’s going to kill me.” Seaswitch’s eyes rolled back in his head until the whites were showing. Almost gracefully, he collapsed in a heap on the floor. Tompson stared at him, his tea now cold.

“What the actual fuck?”

* * *

Wednesday 5th August 1970

During the night and through the early morning, Seaswitch’s condition improved, however, his insistence that he was going to be murdered only grew stronger. Seaswitch would keep getting up and pacing around the room with their frying pan, determined to keep a vigil in case Vivian appeared with a knife, or a syringe filled with poison. By the third time Tompson put him to bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin and promised that nothing was going to happen, he was beginning to lose his patience. When Seaswitch woke up a third time, Tompson just gave him a Valium and pushed him back onto the mattress. Just before Seaswitch had fallen asleep, he’d looked at Tompson with scared and doleful eyes, “Can you ssstay....?” Tompson would not stay. For multiple reasons. Seaswitch took up room, he barely breathed- and Tompson found that disconcerting- he kicked when he had nightmares, he was probably temporarily insane and, when the Valium wore off, Seaswitch’d probably joke that Tompson must have spent years thinking of a way to share his bed. It wasn’t worth it.

Tompson did feel a little guilty a few hours later when Seaswitch woke up screaming; he had thought that the blanket wrapped around his throat was Vivian and Mr. Callow, strangling him.

By the time day reared its ugly head Tompson was thoroughly exhausted. After some intense questioning, Tompson finally found out why Seaswitch’s head had been bleeding; after he’d landed on his shoulder on the pavement, he’d hit his head against a milk crate that had been left on the side of the road. Tompson didn’t know quite why there was a full milk crate at the side of the road. He fancied some lost milkman was walking all over town looking for it. Seaswitch hadn’t picked up any of the bottles.

When Seaswitch woke up at eight thirty, he couldn’t remember anything of the night before until it filtered through into his mind through the sieve of sleep. Tompson came through with a cup of tea and sat on the end of his bed. Seaswitch worried; Tompson was never usually this nice.

“You’re alive, then.”

“Your bedside manner could to with a little work, nurse Tompson.”

Tompson scowled, “Oh, fuck off.”

Relief warmed though Seaswitch like a sort-of-fine wine, this was more normal. Tompson was frowning slightly, as if working out how to phrase something. “Have you thought about... going back home for a little bit? Until it all... settles down?”

A cold wash of dread swirled around Seaswitch’s stomach. He hadn’t been back to the family home since... Suddenly, he imagined he was back there, tears stinging his eyes and a deep hopelessness settling just under his heart. He had wanted to run away then, to run away and to never come back, to keep fleeing, perhaps from even the whirring cogs that move life along, second by second, hour by hour, until the hands of time rustled, until he was down, falling, deeper and deeper, until-

He snapped out of it. Tompson was looking at him with concern hovering in the space between them; a distance that came of being too afraid to ask what the problem was.

“I know you don’t want to see them,” Tompson began, acting like he was holding a thin glass sculpture, “But it is your home as well, and don’t your parents usually do their tour of Europe at this time of year? Your brothers’ll probably be in London, won’t they?”

Seaswitch still didn’t like it, although he couldn’t say that death was a more attractive outcome. In a bid to cheer himself up about the idea he thought about his father’s wine cellar. It was old, massive, and, almost ridiculously, his father didn’t drink any of it. In fact, a trip home didn’t sound so bad at all. If he saw anyone, well. He didn’t have to talk to them, Tompson would be fine- he might even deal with the Vivian situation, and he had his new job to think about. Tompson wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Seaswitch should probably pack for home immediately. He would have to find the key to the cellar. Or have someone make him a copy. He would be able to collect his books from the attic while he was there. He could sit down with a glass or three of Margaux ’48 and read. Yes...

“Help me pack.”

“...because I think it would be a good idea to get away for a while and...”

“Help me pack.”

“...I know you way not want to at first but- ”

“Tompson! For the love of all this is Bordeaux, help me pack.”

“It took a while for Tompson’s mouth to catch up with his brain. Eventually he muttered, oh, and stood up to leave as Seaswitch got dressed. He was too tired to be of much help. The most work he put into Seaswitch’s departure was allowing himself to be lifted up on Seaswitch’s back to pull down the suitcase from on top of the boiler in the cellar. It had felt odd to be taller than Seaswitch. Buoyant. As soon as Seaswitch had left around four, Tompson washed down a sleeping pill with some whiskey dregs and went back to bed. He slept an incredibly long time, for him. He was only wakened by the burglar alarm, but he went straight back into the land of dreams, hoping that someone else would deal with the problem.

*

Vivian crept through the darkness. She’d have to learn how to disable the burglar alarm, it wouldn’t do to announce her presence to the whole building. Seaswitch wasn’t there- she had seen him get on a bus bound to some country village in the middle of nowhere. That meant that she and Tompson would have some desired time alone. She a few hours to relax in the company of a handsome, if a tad shy, man, especially after her fright yesterday. She had nearly hit someone with her car. Vivian had been searching for the pack of Embassy (Filters) that her late husband always kept in the glove box and when she looked up, a figure in a dark coat had been leaping out of the way. It had really shaken her up- she could have killed him, whoever he was.

Vivian was glad that the door didn’t creak when she unlocked it- what possible excuse would she have if the tenants of 6a opened their doors and found her sneaking into the flat opposite after nine pm? That she was fixing a light bulb? The flat was mostly dark except a glow from the bathroom illuminating the edges of things, making them seem hulking- they loomed in the half-light. She stubbed her shoe against a box that clinked- empty bottles, presumably.

Vivian was a bit perplexed that Tompson wasn’t waiting for her- she had assumed that he would greet her at the door. They must be on the same page, surely. He was probably playing hard to get. Somebody else had tried that with her once. The figure must be waiting for her in bed, stretched out and ready for what would transpire. She liked the idea of that. The bedroom door swung open to her touch and on the mattress closest to the door- there he was!

Asleep.

She should wake him. But she couldn’t- here she suffered from the same affliction as Seaswitch- he looked too peaceful while contorted into a ball. It was like magic. Possibilities flickered through her mind. That odious man, Seaswitch, would probably be gone for a few days, judging by the unrecognizibility of the bus’ destination; she could afford to come back another night. Once she had Tompson securely wrapped around her finger she would hack them apart and watch him break Seaswitch’s foul little heart. Perhaps Seaswitch’d be so distraught that he’d obliterate himself and therefore get rid of the problem completely. She smiled a cold, ruthless smile. There was no humanity in that smile- or perhaps altogether too much. In fact, it was not even a smile- just a stretching of lips to bear teeth. Distant sharp clockwork intricately worked itself in the alcoves of her mind. Seaswitch could do the right thing, be a tragic hero, and end it all. Yes, she thought, she could live with that.

Vivian used her hands to guide herself back through the living room, stopping only when she heard an odd rustle from the kitchen, and proceeding to the door. On passing through the egress, she looked up. The woman from 6a was staring at her, a cat in hand. Madison looked as if she were attempting to hide her shock politely. The cat mewed, wiggling its legs. Vivian- Mrs Callow- was just fixing a light bulb- she’d left her tools- what tools- Landlady tools in her flat- no- Tompson’s flat- no- she’d left her Landlady tools in flat 6b. There.

“Uh... If you were looking in on Mr Seaswitch, I think he’s gone to the country to recover, or something.” When Madison moved, a rolling wave of incense blew towards Mrs Callow making her cough.

“To recover?” Internally Vivian crowed, perhaps he was ill, perhaps it was terminal.

“Uh..... Yeah, I think he nearly got hit by a car last night, he’s probably a bit spooked. Poor bloke.”

Yes, yes- poor bloke. Someone nearly hit him... It was a shame they hadn’t finished the job, Vivian thought. A strange coincidence, though.... Oh. She realised. Oh! She’d nearly killed Seaswitch last night! She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. If she hadn’t looked up in time to see him, he would be dead. He would no longer exist. A space, where a person used to be. But... Wishing a person dead was one thing. Doing it... An idea began to form, accompanied by clockwork, and accentuated by the door of 6a clicking closed. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to wait for him to drop dead after all. If what had happened last night was anything to go by, he was practically a danger to himself. She’d be helping him, really... Yes, Vivian thought, she could live with that.

* * * 1/ ?4? I think? Maths isn’t my strong point :)

@astridcontramundum

#tompswitch #original writing

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

Comfortably Numb The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Comfortably Numb - uhhhh implied drug use vaguely- wibbly wobbly

Monday 3rd August 1970

The music was expectant. But not loud. Not too loud. The floor felt like it was made of scarves, tightly wound and affixed to the bottom of the walls, affixed to the corners of the room and tied gently around the table legs. Tompson was unsure of what they were smoking. He was always slightly suspicious, and suspicion slides off the back of the wet duck. The room felt alive, a thousand bands of silk tied together to form bricks to form a room to form a building, a life, the world, the universe- spinning steadily on, readily on until silence falls.

Seaswitch was also unsure what they were smoking- it had been a gift from 6a. It could be anything, including just plain regular tobacco. There had been other things. Things that were consumed without a second thought, down, down, into the belly of the Earth. A Red Kite flew overhead in Seaswitch’s dreams, a voice, familiar but distant, ‘Mostly found over hillside woods, you see it, lad?’.

Tompson was not dreaming. He was certain he was awake. The room hung in huge strips yet he was certain he was awake. His dreams were never usually that odd, or nice.

Seaswitch was certain he was asleep, and so he was unsurprised when he fell over; even though he couldn’t remember standing up. Now, his warm breath was reflected back into his face by something warm, something soft smelling of his aftershave moving- Tompson’s arm. Seaswitch tried to roll away, for privacy though he couldn’t he couldn’t think whose, but he rolled in the wrong direction – he was always going in the wrong direction (Perhaps like Miriam Hargrave and her driving tests- how was she doing). Now he was lying across Tompson’s chest. Barely awake, Tompson shoved him off. Now he was lying in the midst of dreams, in the wake of fictitious reality, and the world was crumbling, the silk gave way and he was falling down, down, deeper into the subconscious although he was blinking in the bright light. Tompson looked different, younger, like the day they had first met. Tompson hadn’t aged, yet he seemed weary of the turning of the days now. Tompson looked as if he were waiting for something to come, now, to pick him up off the floor, to brush him down, to give him a new life. To take him away from this unfurling wreck. But back then, on the steps of the Drama School, Tompson had looked so alive that he hardly could believe that this was his life. Now, Tompson looked as if he did believe this, that he could never stop believing this. Seaswitch didn’t like that. He wanted to take the lost look out of Tompson’s eyes, wanted to be the one to pick him off the floor, to brush him down, to give him a new life. But also, a warring part of Seaswitch reminded him; as long as Tompson lived there, with him, Tompson would never get the life he deserved. Being around Seaswitch, to Seaswitch, was like playing the fiddle on a sinking ship; even the rats had left him. The best thing, no, the honourable thing would be to push Tompson out of this pit, no matter how much it killed Seaswitch. That’s what he should do, but Seaswitch felt he was too much of a dishonourable coward to actually try it. He was falling, although now it didn’t feel so much like falling as crashing. Crashing had a far more imminent destination.

Tompson could hear a noise intruding on the edge of his dream. The dream solidified into hazy reality. Someone was laughing. Seaswitch was curled up on the floor a few feet from him, his shoulders heaving. Not laughing then. Tompson suspected that Seaswitch didn’t even know he was sobbing. That was Seaswitch all over; feeling something so strongly that he didn’t even know it was affecting him. That was probably how Seaswitch would fall in love, Tompson reflected. Although it would be a miracle if Seaswitch ever did fall in love. Women seemed to like him well enough- yet he avoided them, generally. Only when a woman, any woman, turned her shiny smiling eyes on Tompson, did Seaswitch swoop in and go home with them. He treated it as some mundane happening and he never, never spoke about it afterwards. Not even to boast.

Tompson had been drifting off. He opened his eyes again and refocused on Seaswitch. He had his hands knotted in his hair, the noises had stopped. Tompson slowly crawled over to him, and around him, to view Seaswitch’s face and not the back of his head. The back of Seaswitch’s head wasn’t helpful. Well, the front of Seaswitch’s head wasn’t usually helpful either, but that was hardly the point. His eyes were screwed shut but tears still crawled their traitorous way across his face. He was probably unconscious, but shaking like a leaf. Tompson gently tugged the ¾ length coat off the back of Seaswitch’s chair- no, you don’t get to sit in this chair because THIS chair is my possession, as it was my grandmother’s before me, and....- and draped it across the shivering soul. Seaswitch’s fingers, while being fisted in his slightly too long raven hair, also held the burning roll of papers containing god-knows-what. Tompson removed the joint- parts of Seaswitch’s hair may be singed.

Tompson didn’t know what to do- sharp dreams called from the edge of his vision, he was tired, so, so tired, yet he had to do something. He couldn’t leave Seaswitch there like that, it reminded him too much of after The Incident. He’d been crying. Had he curled up on the floor? Tompson couldn’t remember. Gently, Tompson patted him on the arm. Seaswitch was biting his lip, hard enough for it to go white, almost hard enough to draw blood. It would hurt, wouldn’t it? With a finger, and some caution not to get said finger bitten, be pried Seaswitch’s lower lip from between his teeth. Seaswitch did not open his eyes, nor acknowledge that in any way. Tompson almost felt that he was alone in the room. That only a shell resided in the room with him . Seaswitch was probably just asleep; he slept like the dead, until he kicked, suddenly, usually surprising anyone too close. Seaswitch did not kick now. His lips, while chapped, were soft. Tompson realised that he still had his finger tracing over Seaswitch’s mouth. He removed his hand hurriedly, lest Seaswitch wake. Tompson felt that the walls were made of silk, and were becoming unfixed to slowly spiral through the air and they wrapped around he and Seaswitch, warming him.

Seaswitch crashed. It hurt, but at least he was no longer falling. He looked across the fuzzy room to where Tompson lay, deeply wrapped in layers of sleep, the roll up smouldering away in an ashtray nearby. He must be having a good dream, Seaswitch felt, because he was smiling slightly and his arms hugged his torso. Probably thinking about a girl, Seaswitch reasoned.

The floor was no longer silken, it was hard, lumpy, and only partly made of carpet. When they had first moved in, he’d had a brilliant idea to try and sell the carpet. Tompson had warned him that the carpet was easily older than both of them added together. Seaswitch had thought that that would add antique value. What neither of them expected was for the grey rug to be glued down with some red substance ten times stronger than man, or for the carpet to grow bumps which occasionally moved position in time to trip them up.

Tompson snuffled in his sleep. Seaswitch saw his coat draped over the back of his chair, removed it, and covered the Morpheus-clutched Tompson.

The carpet didn’t move. It didn’t move and yet.... It could.

Perhaps Tompson would be in a safer place if he were to be removed from the floor. Seaswitch shook him gently. Tompson murmured but did not wake. Without giving it much thought, Seaswitch dragged Tompson’s mattress out into the living room. After taking the needle of the LP borrowed from next door, he started turning the lights off and double checking the kitchen door was locked. He rolled Tompson onto the mattress. Swapped the coat for Tompson’s blanket. Seaswitch dropped into his own bed in the next room.

Sleep took a long time coming, and an even longer time departing. Seaswitch dreamt of bright colours unwinding, of comfort rubbed along his shoulder, and of Red Kites slowly spiralling through swathes of incandescence. Tompson dreamt of clouds scudding across a deep blue sky and a warmth wrapped around his side, soft breaths mingling with the sleepy breeze.

* * * @astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch #unusual

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

To the contents of my soul (3/3)

@astridcontramundum

This is the final part of the three flashbacks and this would be the last story in the book

I’m only putting it up now because I took ages until I finally got around to digitising it

There are a few more stories after this but I think I’m reaching the end

I took a screenshot because I don’t know how to get italics on tumblr and they were kinda more important for this one

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Funeral - (Death, grief, don’t worry too much, but yeah, also period attitudes)

Date? Haven’t worked it out yet- early winter, 1970

Seaswitch had always hated his father. The way Malcolm felt the world was made as his audience, the way he expected respect. He didn’t demand it, no, he acted like he had never entertained the possibility of people not respecting and obeying him.

His father was proud of his younger and older brothers. His father was always disappointed in him, one way or another. Nothing he ever did as a child to ingratiate himself with his father ever worked. There was always some problem. He didn’t work hard enough, Seaswitch worked harder; he played his music too loudly, Seaswitch then didn’t play his music in the house; he made the wrong friends, Seaswitch stopped talking to people; he was too antisocial, Seaswitch joined a theatre club; he was a pushover, it was then that Seaswitch stopped bothering to obey Malcolm. It was pointless. It wasn’t like he did drugs, or drank copious amounts of alcohol, or acted in plays, or was queer, or stole cars and crashed them in fields. He couldn’t understand it. So, then, Seaswitch, with an uncomfortable hatred growing in his stomach, set out to purposefully disappoint his father.

As soon as he was able to start striking out for freedom he then revelled in the things Malcolm hated. He consorted with actors, got pissed whenever he could, said yes to anything he was offered, ‘borrowed’ his father’s car to show an actor how to drive and then allowed the inebriated sod to drive it into a field and nearly into a tractor. He remembered a time, long before the Drama School and Tompson, a night, across a field, a stolen vehicle, stolen by they of the red hair and the green eyes and those lips, softer than expected, tasting of spilled wine, hands clutching tight over the leather covered seats, Jerry Lee Lewis blasting through the radio, the day of the crash, the Day The Music Died he discovered later, shirt discarded, howls of freedom into the night air, it could have been love (it wasn’t).

Seaswitch encouraged sordid rumours to blossom around his home so that Malcolm would hear about whatever he was supposed to have done. Seaswitch, with a sick irony, wished that his father regretted having him. Seaswitch could almost taste the cold dislike rolling off Malcolm and he basked in it. The day his father had said he wished Seaswitch dead was a terrible victory. The sense of accomplishment warred with the agonising pain that stabbed over and over again. Seaswitch nearly regretted the decision that his fourteen year old self had made. He ached. He had finally achieved what he wanted but it was nowhere near what he needed. Nothing would ever be the same again. He couldn’t go back– only forwards. But forwards to what? To dying of liver failure at thirty-two, an empty funeral– after all, they’d say, he brought it on himself, he got himself drunk, he allowed himself to be queer, he let a gap grow between him and his father.

Or perhaps it wouldn’t end that way. Perhaps he’d be shot by a jealous lover. Or he’d become successful and famous and his father, while still maintaining his hate for him– as that would never go away– would wish that he’d remained close to his filthy rich son. Seaswitch could rise up the rungs of theatrical success until there would be no bringing him down.

But things would always bring him down. He almost felt like he deserved it. All these almosts and maybes and nearlys, it was pitiful. He didn’t deserve Tompson, yet he selfishly clung to him anyway, clung to the hope that someone could love him without pity. He felt it a ridiculous hope– it almost hurt. No, it did hurt, although not as much as his father’s final words. Watching Tompson, completely unaware, uncaring probably, cut like a knife. Yet Seaswitch stuck with it, feeling the stinging as a penance of sorts. This was his punishment. For existing. He felt that he was so selfish, so cruel, so cowardly. The only thing he was good at was acting, pretending that this was not the case.

Seaswitch was standing over his father’s coffin. A wooden box contained whatever was left after the man’s life. Seaswitch wasn’t happy, or glad, or whatever the fuck his sixteen year old self thought he’d feel at this eventuality. He mourned for a life he could have had. A life where there was no growing rift between them. His father wasn’t evil. He had been human. Seaswitch hadn’t always hated his father. Before he grew used to not being good enough, there had been a little boy with bruised knees and a tall smiling man had taken his hand had taken his hand and led him home, and pointed out the birds in the sky, and had kissed the boy’s mother on the cheek and had read a bedtime story to him.

Seaswitch ached. Where was that little boy now? Had he died along with the final smile that was given to him freely? Rain pattered on his face and mingled with the tears he ignored. And his tears would drip down and soak into the ground that his father would rest under and perhaps in a thousand years the land would be ploughed and the remains of the churchyard discovered and the pain-soaked earth would feel the air again and, perhaps, one day a father and his son would walk home and point out the different birds as they went along and, maybe, it would all end differently. Maybe it wouldn’t end as badly. Maybe it would be alright.

* * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Time Off The Stage. - not sure if I have already put this up? I don’t think so...

Thursday 8th October 1970

There would have been appreciative silence, if it weren’t for the crunch. It was bold and distracting, about as rude as laughter at a funeral, and about as obvious as a sore thumb. Well, not exactly a sore thumb, but Tompson was feeling particularly vindictive as his own thumb was throbbing from having shut it in the door on the way in.

Seaswitch shifted, brushing involuntarily against Tompson.The small community hall would have been packed, if the heathen civilians from the outside actually cared about Shakespeare. The hall wasn’t empty, not by any means, but there was still a faintly spartan look to the proceedings. The young actor playing Puck warbled through his lines, eyes gleaming with the beginning of the addiction, but was interrupted by the crunch again. Next to him, Tompson tried to ignore it. Seaswitch also tried to ignore it; it wouldn’t do to start a fight, not in front of the Bard.

Crunch.

Seaswitch ground his teeth. Crunch. Someone was going to pay. But after the performance. Crunch. It simply wouldn’t do.

“Look, could you possibly try to chew that more quietly? There are other people here, you know.” Hissed Seaswitch in his most officious I’m-the-proprietor voice. Tompson stiffened in the seat next to him, probably thinking of a God to pray to; Seaswitch knew Tompson had no faith in him.

The vexatious man turned around and grinned, like an apple. There really was no other way to describe it, apart from possibly a fermented apple. “I don’t see no one else complainin’ - an’ I bet if you asked ‘em, they’d tell you t’ be quiet, like.” He apple-d merrily- even that was... It must be the heat and the smoke machine, Seaswitch felt he must be going strange. A man like an apple, really. Seaswitch turned back to watch the players on the stage. Lysander would be coming on soon- bringing Gael with him. Well, Gael wasn’t really a true actor, but Seaswitch thought he was doing a wonderful job for a civilian, and he was just being a wonderful person in general. Gael was standing in for someone. Geoff Strathsbucket had injured himself. The world was a minuscule place; the injury had occurred in the same accident that had broken Iris’ leg. Seaswitch watched Gael’s body language carefully as he came on; he was a little nervous but that melted out immediately when the vibrant green eyes locked onto his own. A slightly more confident smile. Green eyes... That was the first thing Seaswitch had noticed about Gale- they were a similar hue to... flames, bonfire, wildfire ... the other green eyes. But not the same, he had to remember that. And he wasn’t an actor, just standing in for one.

Tompson wasn’t quite sure why they were there. Well, he didn’t mind. It was nice to get out- they hadn’t left since Talon… And it wasn’t as if he’d been dragged there. Seaswitch had entered the flat without a scowl. Flung two tickets on the table and had invited him. Well, he hadn’t, not exactly. Tompson had been asked by a nearly frantic Seaswitch to find someone who wanted A Midsummer Night’s Dream ticket for free. Well, Seaswitch hadn’t been frantic, he’d been very reserved, but he’d tried to fix his hair in the mirror over the bath, and if that wasn’t frantic behaviour.... Perhaps it wasn’t frantic behaviour, but it made Tompson feel slightly better about feeling lost at sea in the ridiculously crowded room. Ridiculous. There was barely space to breathe. Everyone was crammed together and there was that horrid crunching man in front of them. Still, it was nice to get out of the flat for the first time in two weeks. Somehow it felt like just the beginning of a hiatus from the world. Movement on the stage drew his gaze.

The actor playing Helena was pretty- more than pretty- amazing. She had intelligent eyes that caught his as if she knew what he was thinking. She seemed close to him, despite standing up on the stage, owning the stage if you asked him. Most of the women in his life were close and distant, but usually the other way around. Even his mother, when he was growing up, had a look in her eyes, as if she were peering at him through thousands of miles of civilisations.

Crunch.

Tompson hoped that Seaswitch wouldn’t say anything else. What had happened during And Now Comes A Bright Day still hung around him in a impenetrable smog that juddered and grew as the sea drew close. The sea grew close. The sea drew close. Seaswitch, next to him, chuckled at Lysander, played by some blonde about Tompson’s age. He frowned, almost recognising him. Oh- of course. Under all the makeup it was Gael. Tompson didn’t know his face nearly as well as Seaswitch, but recognised his general gait and the blonde hair. Tompson couldn’t think for the life of him why Gael was on the stage- he hadn’t thought he was an actor. He was doing a commendable job for a civilian, but.... well... you couldn’t blame him really; he just wasn’t good enough.

The audience was too loud. Tompson’s thumb still hurt. The chairs were organised so badly that Seaswitch was pressed against him, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Tompson had put his hand is Seaswitch’s pocket instead of his own by mistake. Expecting his pack of Player No. 6, he was surprised to pull out an envelope marked, with great care that was atypical for Seaswitch, with “Gale”. It was a nice envelope too. Heavy paper. The kind from a letter set. Seaswitch must have taken it from the Seaswitch-Barnes country home last time he was there. Tompson gently slipped it back into Seaswitch’s pocket, not wanting to draw attention to his curiosity.

Looking at Seaswitch now, there was a finality about him that Tompson hadn’t noticed before. A slight sadness that he appeared to be ignoring in himself. No, couldn’t be. Tompson felt he must be attributing stray emotions to him.

Crunch.

Seaswitch shut his eyes in fury. He knew he was showing too much emotion, Tompson would pick up on it, but he couldn’t dampen it down. Couldn’t or wouldn’t, he didn’t know. It almost felt wrong, attempting to act over it. Instead, he tried to ignore it; there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. The world was a grinding organism that dictated his every movement and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t change the past. His eyes were shut in fury, fury that would save him from watching Gael on the stage, fury that would save him from less consuming emotions, more consuming emotions, he felt frayed, frayed throughout his soul, his DNA, surely it would all be better if nothing had happened, if he hadn’t existed. That way, there’d be nothing to miss. It made him think about Brief Encounter; a goodbye interrupted fatally. Fatally to the goodbye. How Celia Johnson had looked at Trevor Howard. The agonising pure feeling of loss, of looking across the room as he walked away, silently. But then, what would be said if there could be a goodbye? Would their voices have made it, or would they have trembled, emotion distorting the word and masking the sentiment. Would they have even known what to say? They wouldn’t be able to embrace, there, on the platform. It wouldn’t have been right, not then, not now. He’d seen that film many times, too many times.

Seaswitch felt detached- his eyes shut only exacerbated this. A few people behind him chuckled and a loud whoop came from ahead. Tompson nudged him as he shifted, knocking into his hip. The performance would be over soon; he’d have to enjoy it while it lasted.

He opened his eyes.

* * * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

A Park Bench At The Onset Of Night The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

A Park Bench At The Onset Of Night - ugh- awkwardness- period views - stuff - uncomfortable one sided flirting - ear worms (Be warned :) )

Tuesday 28th July 1970

Tompson was euphoric. The music was still playing in his head. He honestly wanted to dance. ‘So build me up, buttercup, don’t break my heart!’ He was swaying to the music that had left such an imprint on him. He wasn’t certain that he hadn’t taken something by accident.

“Why do you build me up (build me up) Buttercup baby, just to let me down, and MESS me AROUND!” He tried to sing the echoes as well. It made him sound a bit of a tit, but he couldn’t care. For once, he honestly didn’t care. Any worry had washed away in the rain and it flowed down the drains and into the heart of the Earth- he didn’t care. For now, it was out of his heart. He had been separated from Seaswitch over an hour ago, back at the pub.

It was pissing it down, he didn’t have a coat, he was soaked to the skin, yet; he couldn’t stop smiling! Perhaps he had taken something. Maybe there was something in the Tic Tacs he had been consuming one after another. Ha! The thought swam up through his consciousness on a break for freedom and he giggled hysterically. Here Lies Peter Tompson- He Overdosed On Tic Tacs. He must look like a nutter.

Tompson’s ankle began to throb slightly- he had gone over on it when jumping over a bar stool. Cold water trickled down between his shoulder blades, reminding him that he was alive. His ankle throbbed a little harder, reminding him that he was still human and needed to sit down. Ahead, through the driving rain and the darkening sky, he saw a park bench at the edge of the sphere of light, and a bin. He ran towards it in a ridiculous charade of keeping dry, as if that were at all possible. He nearly pitched forwards twice, due to not watching the path beneath him. He was in the part where the town gently merged into a park. A few strips of grass and a tree amongst the worn buildings, slowly going deeper and deeper until there were lawns and ponds and then fading once again into the urban utopia. Christ, Tompson thought to himself, he must really be mad to be calling the cesspit surrounding him a utopia. Once on the bench he realised how uncomfortably hot he was. His heart was hammering like a woodpecker on speed. It was nine O’clock- Tompson could hear the tolls- nobody was around. He unbuttoned his shirt and arched his back over the support of the bench, baring his throat to the sky. The bench was cold and slightly slimy with the rain. He didn’t care. His pulse was beginning to slow down. It occurred to him that he was posed like a model on a risqué shampoo poster, the type he had seen pinned up behind the counter of the shop that Seaswitch frequented. The shop, Red Door, didn’t sell things like that. Seaswitch was never interested in anything like that, anyway. Said he could see the real thing anytime he wanted, if he so chose to. Tompson wasn’t quite sure what type of shop it was. It had albums- but never singles, carrots, empty bottles, full bottles if you were to talk quietly to the shopkeeper, books, aspirin, bits of string, magnets. There was also a backroom but Seaswitch had told him never to go in there. Seaswitch went in there.

“What a lovely sight.”

Tompson startled, looking around to see Mrs Callow looking at him appraisingly. Oh God. He’d been avoiding her, worried that she’d try it on again. He did his shirt up self-consciously, aware that it wasn’t doing much. It had been white. Now it was transparent. Mrs Callow did not avert her eyes; instead she took a closer focus on him.

“Are you drunk?” She asked, energy of excitement charging up in her eyes.

“Not really.”

She ignored his response. “Because if you’re drunk, how can I trust myself around you? Anything could... Happen.” Mrs Callow purred, thinking perhaps this would be their first stolen moment in their torrid affair. An affair that existed only in her imagination. She took a step closer to him, “Now your... friend, Seabird- is it? Now he’s away-”

“-Mrs Callow- ”

“Call me Vivian. Mrs Callow always sounds so... Dominating- unless, of course, you like that?”

“Vivian. Seaswitch will probably be back soon, he’s only gone a minute- ”

Mrs Callow’s eyes flashed as she remembered his previous disrobed state. She’d heard that sometimes a man liked both- but in one night? Her lip with slight disgust.

“You mean to say, that you were both out here- in public? You could be arrested!” This would not do, she could not have a liaison in a prison cell!

“Uh, no?” Tompson wasn’t too sure how to respond to the insinuation. Mrs Callow certainly seemed to have taken their theatricals into her imagination. Still, despite the fact that she thought he was in a relationship with a homosexual, one of those actors, still she pursued him. Unless she thought that he was interested in both. He hadn’t thought of that. He never really thought about things like that much. He wasn’t bothered by those things; he was an actor after all, and in that line of work you couldn’t do a production without meeting a few. The closest he’d got to mentally examining himself on that subject was idly wondering, during a cheap performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, whether they found him attractive. Puck had been staring at him oddly. Tompson had been playing Cobweb, a fairy.

Mrs Callow took another measured step towards him. Tompson did not like the way she was looking at him.

“Seaswitch’ll be back in only a moment.” He croaked and when that did not work, “It would kill him if he thought I was cheating on him.”

“Good!” Snarled Mrs Callow viciously. It was the type of snarl, Tompson thought, which belonged to the type of person who could, if they had wanted, kill their husband.

“Vivian, you shouldn’t come any closer. I- I’m ill.”

That stopped her advance quickly. “What? How?”

“Not like that- it’s just a fever. But I’m really quite tired...”

If she was the type to fuss, she would hover over him muttering things like ‘oh you poor dear’. Vivian just nodded and walked away through the night. It was a long walk back to the flat and he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was tired. After some deep consideration, that was swung by the pleasantness of the night now that the rain was slowing and stopping, he decided to sit there for a little longer. Until he felt like walking, at least.

The wind stirred the leaves in the tree, a rustling susurration swept around him. He should be freezing, but it had been a ridiculously hot day and the sky was cloudy, insulating the night. Slowly, so slowly that he almost didn’t notice at first, voices in the park gradually got louder.

He recognised Seaswitch’s loud posh voice as it cut through the warm darkness, although his actual words were unintelligible. Eventually he sauntered into view, although staggered was a better word. A trench coat with a mop of blond hair was leaning against him. It was clear they were propping each other up, although Seaswitch rarely needed help. The blonde hair looked up and Tompson saw that he was wearing sunglasses that were crooked. Seaswitch’s hair was mussed up, he had a rip in one sleeve and his shirt was buttoned up wrong. When he saw Tompson he stopped walking. The blonde walked a few paces before realising that he had lost his support and promptly tripped over the bin.

“You’re soaking.” Stated Seaswitch as he tried to assemble some form of coherent thought.

“You should be a detective- what happened to you?”

“Uh... Got in a fight. This,” He motioned to the blonde, “is Gael. He’s Welsh. Tompson.” Seaswitch pointed at Tompson. Gael nodded solemnly, like a devout student learning from a master. Gael swayed forward and shook his hand. His hands were warm, although that might have been because Tompson was beginning to get colder.

“I should probably go... Nice to meet you!” Gael pronounced very carefully and slowly, careful not to slur. He meandered down the path and faded into the darkness.

“Let’s go.”

“You’re... not drunk. But you were stumbling around- ”

“I told you. We- I was in a fight.”

“Okay.... Are you hurt?”

Seaswitch dropped the coldness between them by smiling slightly sheepishly. “Sprained my leg running away.”

They ambled off into the night, towards the flat, but Tompson did not forget the Welshman. He must have been about twenty and he’d had a soft, rolling accent. Flushed with laughter, he couldn’t see any marks on him. * * * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

By Light Of Early Morning The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

  By Light Of Early Morning - idiocy, period attitudes, sleep

Thursday 23th July 1970

The headache was the type that he didn’t notice at first. It was stealthy. It tricked Seaswitch into believing that he could handle more than he actually could.

Seaswitch got out of bed with no trouble. He couldn’t go back to sleep; his nerve endings tingled with sluggish wakefulness. It was ridiculously early for him. The bedroom was dark: the one small window did not face the rising sun. In fact, none of their windows faced the rising sun. They usually got the evening light through the living room casement, the one with a crack down the centre. The window in the kitchen faced the same direction, however, it was so grubby that nothing could pass through, not even sound; it blended into the wall. The small amount of light that entered the bedroom was soft and warm. It oozed across the floor to where Tompson’s mattress was.

Tompson slept in a knot, arms and legs tangled together. It always confused Seaswitch. Whenever he woke up first, a rare occurrence, he could spend whole minutes staring at the sleeping form, trying to work out where Tompson was in that mess of limbs. He often wondered about how uncomfortable it looked. Seaswitch liked to think that he himself slept in an orderly manner, but, he reasoned, he would never be absolutely certain. After all, he would be asleep at the time, and unable to note his position down. When Tompson had first moved in, Seaswitch had been worried. What if he talked in his sleep and nobody had warned him until now? What if Tompson was secretly an absolute bastard and would stay up late with a notebook and write down anything he mumbled in a mad chance to blackmail him?

He was startled out of his remembrances by Tompson snuffling in his sleep. It wouldn’t do to wake him. Sleeping in a chair, Tompson looked serene, however, when he slept in something more comfortable he always contorted himself into what must be agonising positions. Seaswitch often thought that the greatest torture to be inflicted in someone would be to be Tompson for one night in a feather bed.

The dimness of the room made it hard for Seaswitch to spot the edge of the ‘Washing Up’ pile. Over the last year it had grown exponentially, and was slowly taking over the bedroom, It could almost be sentient. Seaswitch got his foot tangled in a shirt, but then he felt something move. With a movement similar to a felled tree, Seaswitch went over. He landed on the foot of Tompson’s bed, who woke with a scream.

“What the bloody fuck! Don’t kill me, I- ”

“It’s me.”

“Well, what was that for?”

“Forget it. Go back to sleep.”

Tompson’s curls stuck up in odd angles. His skinny chest heaved in sleep dazed shock. The diffused light caught one side of his face. He looked like a startled deer. Then again, he usually did. Most people thought he lived off coffee, but that was not the case. He was a bundle of nerves and he ran on sheer anxiety and digestive biscuits. Tompson was usually quite flighty around new people. The only person he seemed to feel comfortable enough around to insult was Seaswitch. The ‘innocent victim’ to Tompson’s idiosyncratic confidence could never work out why this was.

Seaswitch’s head felt... expectant. Like a hangover was lying dormant, just waiting to attack him as soon as he let his guard down. He felt starving but his stomach was too precarious. This is what Seaswitch was: a hangover in waiting. His body cried for coffee. He wondered absently how Tompson would feel when he woke up.

Tompson mad no further noise, except a rhythmic sniffling. He must have fallen back into the arms of Morpheus. It was very rare for Tompson to sleep long. He often stayed up for hours reading, filling the time, and would also wake earl y, at an unreasonable hour. They had different tastes. Five was ‘unreasonable’ for Tompson however Seaswitch found it rude to do anything important before ten O’clock at the earliest. Seaswitch missed the door handle on the first try. It swung open after some concentration.

The living room was too bright- the lights were on. Hot needles buried themselves behind Seaswitch’s eyes. If the hangover were a person, it would smirk. ‘I told you so.’ It would say. It would be dressed like an accountant but would behave like a smug child. Or, a better synonym; a politician.

Through the muffling of post-alcohol agony, he heard singing. He felt he was going mad in the moonlight. Except it was early morning. Seaswitch had always thought it a rather romantic prospect to go mad in the moonlight. It was much more tasteful that becoming a gibbering insane wreck in a hotel and knifing a blonde thief in the shower. An older roommate of the past had grown an obsession with Alfred Hitchcock. Seaswitch had always been careful to not go into the bathroom with Harold around, out of the fear that the unusual student would try to re-enact Psycho.

Once, during the time he’d lived with Harold, Seaswitch had woken up to find the nutter standing at the foot of his bed, staring at him. After a minute, Harold had left. Seaswitch had moved into a new flat pretty quickly after that, with what was possibly a medical student called Neil. Seaswitch hadn’t paid much attention to him; he slept during the day when Seaswitch was at the Drama School, and worked during the night. Seaswitch had never been particularly certain about what he did. Something to do with medicine, he’d thought. Seaswitch didn’t care that much; Neil kept the flat spotless with his borderline OCD habits. In fact, Seaswitch had completely misunderstood the brief introduction he was given; Neil worked as a trainee chef at a 24 hour restaurant. He lived with the man he knew very little about for nearly a year until Neil disappeared off the face of the earth. Vanessa, a fellow drama student, thought that she’d seen him on the poster for an Estonian rock band. Seaswitch had never really liked Vanessa. All she’d do was bitch about people all day, namely him. She had been Tompson’s first girlfriend or something similarly ridiculous, and had run off with Harold when the three year Dramatic Arts course had come to an end. They deserved each other.

The singing voice intruded on his thoughts again. He wasn’t going mad; It was the woman from next door. One of the two hippies with the evil, malevolent fur-ball of a cat. It was one hiss and scratch away from being turned into a hat or a pair of shoes. Madison, he thought the woman’s name was. He had woken up in her bed once- it had been heavily perfumed with some kind of incense and a teddy bear lacking an eye had been inches away from his face. When he screamed at this sight, Madison had rushed in an explained what had happened. Tompson had thought he was dead. He had enlisted the help of flat 6a. What had actually happened was that Seaswitch had found a packet of unmarked pills and, in a purely scientific test, ingested them to see what would happen. One of them turned out to be a sleeping pill of Tompson’s that could take down a large elephant. Tompson didn’t use them. When Seaswitch usually slept, he didn’t move. Many times throughout their flat share, Tompson had woken him up to check he was still breathing. He slept like a corpse. Apparently it was a miracle he hadn’t been harmed. Seaswitch hadn’t thought so; his biology was so inexplicably and significantly altered by his lifestyle that he’d probably be immune to certain quantities of arsenic. Seaswitch wasn’t worried. He could survive his own cooking.

* * * * @astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

A Song For The Broken Hearted

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

  A Song For The Broken Hearted - mild injury, period attitudes, bad attempts at writing drunk ness because I’m usually not good at remembering how people speak because I’m usually the most far gone :),

Wednesday 22nd July 1970

Why the hell was he not dead? He was certain that people could not live with their hearts missing from their bodies. And she had torn his out. It still hurt! Why the hell would she do that?

He was drunk. He knew he was drunk. The world didn’t usually revolve when sober. The curtains didn’t usually remind him of the girl who had broken his heart when sober. He wasn’t crying though. He didn’t cry. His face was wet for an entirely different reason which was... he couldn’t think of a convenient excuse. Bloody Seaswitch never got his heart broken by cruel, scheming women. To think of it, Seaswitch never had a girlfriend. He just went off with girls once in a while and never spoke of it. He could hear Seaswitch’s voice in his head. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ the mental apparition asked, ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge!’

Tompson looked up to see Seaswitch standing over him, his black hair sleep-tousled. Seaswitch hadn’t been in his head. Bloody hell, he was real! He tried not to laugh. The floor swung like a pendulum beneath him. The world was slow, why the hell had he gotten this drunk? It sounded like something Seaswitch would suggest, but here the man was, mostly sober for once. He must have taken it into his own head. Seaswitch would be proud if he knew. Oh. He did know. And he was looking at Tompson with something close to pity in his eyes. How dare he?

“H’w DARE you...?” Tompson slurred indignantly, however the righteous fury was lost in the tears dripping down his face. Tompson wrapped his arms around himself, wanting to be comforted. Unfortunately there was only Seaswitch. A memory resurfaced in the stagnant waters of his mind, as unwelcome as a letter starting with, ‘we regret to inform you’. Pouring ice from the empty gin glass and into the cider. Rosie’s face, full of fucking pity, how he hated pity, as she walked away. ‘I just don’t care about you as much as you do me.’ She had said. Her friends had probably laughed. After she had walked away, and out of a loving three-day relationship, his mind had felt offset, drunken, tilted. So he had decided that his body should catch up. He must have left the cafe and walked into the pub next door.

“Hey... Stop crying, you’ll dehydrate.”

“Fffuck off, you overdramatic twat.”

“Oh. She left you, then. I had-“

“Yes! I fucking know you told me. You told me! Get over it!”

There was silence. Tompson couldn’t tell if Seaswitch was upset because he had closed his eyes and he didn’t want to open them again. The water- not tears- in his eyes made the room swim. Or perhaps it was the alcohol. The floor, according to his centre of gravity, appeared to slide up towards him but- he didn’t hit it. It must have been the tears – er, water. Or his mind playing tricks. His chest was tight but that was just Seaswitch’s arms holding him off the floor. Oh. That made sense. He couldn’t remember how much he’d drunk; that was usually a bad sign. He could feel Seaswitch’s face pressed into his shoulder, slender arms belted around his waist, keeping him upright. He sat down on the floor and Seaswitch released him. Seaswitch started to say something else but Tompson was tired, his shoulder hurt and his head was swimming. He reluctantly opened his eyes and saw something odd flash across Seaswitch’s face; surprise and concern.

“You’re bleeding!” He hissed.

“What the bloody hell are you on about?”

Tompson looked down. The shoulder of his shirt was red with what must have been blood. He couldn’t remember how that got there. It certainly explained the throbbing and the heat. With a start, he realised that Seaswitch was crossing the room towards him with the First Aid Box. It had a couple of aspirins in it, a plaster, several bottles of medicinal alcohol that had long since been emptied, cotton wool and a large knot of black thread with a needle. Neither of them liked the First Aid Box, and not only because there was no longer any alcohol in it. There was something about the feel of the metal that unsettled them, carrying it was like being a pall-bearer. It had a form of Pavlovian effect; with the First Aid Box, there must be pain.

Seaswitch didn’t bother explaining what he was about to do; Tompson wouldn’t understand, or would try to take over. The woman was stupid for having left Tompson in that state, Seaswitch thought to himself; it meant that he had to be the Responsible One. He wasn’t good at being the Responsible One. To be fair to Seaswitch, the last time he had been put in that position was at the age of twelve, and had led to the death of a goldfish named Fred.

Seaswitch grabbed the hem of Tompson’s shirt and attempted to pull it up over his head. It pulled tight on the back of his cranium, swinging Tompson’s head forward. They head butted, hard. Seaswitch sprung back in surprise, believing himself attacked. Tompson looked up to see his flatmate vibrating with adrenaline and his fists stuck flimsily out as a barrier. Tompson started laughing uncontrollably. Embarrassment replaced the adrenaline which in turn was replaced by Seaswitch’s usual sour attitude.

“Oh, fuck off and tend to your own injuries.”

“No.... No.... Ple-eease....” Began Tompson, furiously trying to muffle his mirth, “I can’t do it myse-eelf... You wudden... Leave me to die?”

Seaswitch rolled his eyes before tugging off the last of Tompson’s shirt. A small cut was engraved on the patient’s shoulder. It wasn’t very deep. With a lack of medicinal alcohol and medical experience, Seaswitch dabbed on a little red wine. Tompson hissed dramatically, although it didn’t actually hurt.

Seaswitch suddenly realised that he had never properly seen Tompson shirtless before. He always turned around when he changed, showing off his back. Seaswitch now knew why. Tompson had a tattoo! A flower winding around a heart was embossed on his lightly freckled skin. It was quite small, barely bigger that Seaswitch’s thumb, on the upper right side of his chest. Seaswitch traced a finger over it, about to ask its meaning, when Tompson spoke up.

“Daisy.”

Seaswitch smiled slightly, “What is it with you and girls with flower names?”

“The tattoo wassher idea. I didn’t... like it.”

“Did it hurt?”

Tompson stared at him, trying to catch more than fragments of the memory, “bl’dy.... Yeah.”

Seaswitch huffed a laugh, surprised about this small aspect of Tompson’s life that he had known absolutely nothing about. After he cello taped some cotton wool over the laceration, a term he’d learnt form a medical drama he never featured in, he sat down next to Tompson as he alternately sobbed and griped about Rosie. The bite was taken out of this vaguely unpleasant experience- he’d never been good with the emotions of others- by the now-medicinal-bottle of wine. It had been half price- the label was torn off. After a while, Tompson stopped snivelling, and, after a shorter while still, the bottle was empty.

Alcohol affected Seaswitch differently to Tompson. Tompson would lose his motor abilities, his reason, and his usual control over not bursting into tears. Seaswitch, however, only slurred and, at worst, walked into door frames. His thought process was never impacted, nor his reasoning abilities. Yet, he did all the risky things that most people would only ever do when not in control of their wits. This was because, in the words of even his closest friends, Seaswitch was ‘a mad bastard’. At that moment in time he was only slurring slightly, mostly due to tiredness and not, in fact, wine.

“Y’know...” Tompson began, waving a finger in the air absentmindedly, just missing Seaswitch’s nose, who was sat on the floor across from him, “I really miss having birthdays. It’ss fun-er when you’re small.”

Seaswitch frowned, unsure of where the conversation was heading and certain that Tompson was small. Compared to him, at least. “W... what... do you mean? I got you a cake last time- I even remembered right...”

“Well..... It wzz a loverly cake... ‘xcept it was stolen. It had a, a, a bee’s, um... Said ‘6’ on it. You burn them... Bees make-”

“Wax. Candles.”

“Yeah... Y’know... On my twelvethh, um, bir’day was the Day The Music Died.”

Seaswitch felt that they had veered onto unexpected grounds, was suffering from mental whiplash and wanted to go back to thinking about cake. “What fucking... music?”

“I got a bike,” Continued Tompson, blithely oblivious to his flatmate’s confusion, “My sister got... His... Hysterical. Weeping.”

“...talking about music- we were on birthdays- what bloody music...”

“She wanted the bike- ‘t’was red- an’...” Still, Tompson ignored the muttering from in front of him , “Later, she pretendeded tha’ she knew. That she was prehistoric. Uh,” He fumbled in his mental drawers for the right word, “Pathetic. Prophesised it.”

Seaswitch’s confusion was finally taking a form, “Why did the music die?”

“Buddy Holly. The, the... Crash.”

“Oh!” Seaswitch exploded, understanding finally dawning in the stormy sky in his addled mind.

“D’you remember it? My sister cried.”

“I was fifteen. Wi’... with a girl. She liked my accent an’ I managed to get her... wazzit... top off.”

“You had... At fifteen?”

Seaswitch snorted at the memory of his younger self, so full of himself but fumbling inexperienced in the dark. “No... Lost confidence wi’... the brassiere.”

“Bra.” Tompson corrected on automatic. Seaswitch was often out of touch with the normal words for women’s garments.

“’t’s it... Like bloody ‘nigmas... Gave up on them.”

Tompson felt a good joke creeping into sight, “What, girls?”

In the darkening room Seaswitch’s eyes widened, glinting with the last of the light. “No, no! Why would- I wouldn’t- ‘M not like that!”

The younger tenant backtracked quickly, having hit a nerve, “Er, no. Never said you was.... Were. Fuck, grammar.”

“B’cause you don’t give up girls if you... ‘M not one of.... Those actors. Know I went to drama school bu’ that doesn’t mean...”

“Course not! I went to drama school- we were in the same... Class.”

Seaswitch stopped talking to himself and favoured Tompson with a rare grin. “No... I would have... Remembered you. Scrawny sod, overacts.”

“Fuck you, you.... You were always too posh, y’know, everyone had... doubts.”

Seaswitch shook his head good-naturedly. Of the two men in the room, both thought that they were the better actor. Seaswitch dozed off in his chair while Tompson crawled into the bedroom and onto his mattress, which was the closest. He was so exhausted that he only woke up once, when Seaswitch slumped into his own mattress across the room.

* * * * @astridcontramundum

#original writing #Tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Third Instalment - pt 4

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Wednesday 30th September 1970

A week passed with few troubles. Talon was sent into the kitchen to retrieve supplies. He still didn’t believe them about the thing being a deadly, murderous, killing machine, but he didn’t mind fetching the bread, tea and wine. He could tell Tompson still didn’t like him, but it bothered him less and less each day. Seaswitch– he was great. They didn’t really talk much which was a bonus. Talon got uncomfortable in long conversations.

Talon noticed that Seaswitch was nervous– bordering terrified– on his bike. Seaswitch wasn’t a particularly strong man– he wasn’t weak– but the grip around his waist as they’d driven to the pub had made his ribs ache.

Apparently they were actors– Seaswitch and Tompson. They never seemed to do any work– except Tompson occasionally got paid for carrying a few crates from a truck into the pub.

They spent a lot of time there– fair enough– but somehow Seaswitch never seemed to pay for anything. In the Horse And Crown, Seaswitch was handed drinks free of charge buy a barmaid with a sly smile, and in the Red Lion people would come up and buy them for him– cashing in favours, they’d always say. Seaswitch occasionally slipped Tompson one of his free pints, but other than that, he left Talon and Tompson to fend for themselves.

They sat in the Thatcher’s Arms, a round on the table. Tompson sat in the far corner of the bench, his back to the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. Considering his height, it wasn’t difficult. Seaswitch lounged against the other corner of the bench, looking almost regal in his posture, his arms resting across the top of the bench.

Over the opposite side of the room sat a group of middle-aged men, who all leaned in over their table and muttered quietly to each other. Three out of the five had a pipe, and so they were wreathed in smoke, giving them an almost supernatural air.

“Are they there often?” he asked around a mouthful of chicken from a basket.

Tompson’s eyes flickered up to look at the group before nodding softly. He appeared to be quite tired. Talon thought him cynical and exhausted by life.

Seaswitch eventually expanded on the answer; “Constantly. We– Tompson avoids them; thinks they’re plotting a bank robbery or something.”

Tompson seemed to be falling asleep against the back of the bench. Talon didn’t like it. He couldn’t stay with them long – if he did he knew he’d slowly be dragged down to their barely existing level, and the worst thing would be that he wouldn’t notice it. He’d climbed out of a grave once before, he didn’t want to have to do it again.

To change the conversation he mentioned something they would probably be interested in, “I know someone who went to that Shakespeare play.”

“Which one?” murmured Tompson, clinging onto consciousness by sound alone.

“The weird one.”

Tompson’s eyes snapped open and met Seaswitch’s. Some kind of wary conversation seemed to pass between them by eye contact alone.

“Do you mean Peter Brook’s Dream?”

“The Midsummer Night’s thing, yeah.”

There was a pause as both actors decided how to react. An information hungry look entered Tompson’s eye and Seaswitch aimed for aloofness. They both landed on seeming bitter and desperate.

“What happened?” asked Talon, suddenly aware he might have breached the wrong topic for conversation but was too far in to back out now.

“I turned them down.” lied Seaswitch, who was spoken over by Tompson.

“They would have become too famous– didn’t want the stress.”

Talon sat in silence and raised an eyebrow. Somehow this usually got him the answers he wanted. Both Tompson and Seaswitch rebelliously tried to remain in silence, but eventually the conversational void got the better of them.

“Couldn’t even get an audition.” one of them murmured.

Internally, Talon grinned; it always worked.

* * *

Saturday 3rd October 1970

Tompson woke up slowly, aware that he was twisted into an uncomfortable shape and tried to cling on to the discomfort tolerance that unconscious seemed to grant. He hated the mornings that he woke up in the bathtub. He and Seaswitch had drawn up a rota between them for who would get Tompson’s bed and who would get the bath to sleep in. It was taken for granted that Talon would not move. They hadn’t even asked him. After a while, flat 6b had settled into a rhythm.

It was an ordinary day, which was why, when Tompson got up, he didn’t think to read the note on the living room table. Seeing the fact that a note existed reminded him to remind Seaswitch to bring their clothes to the Laundrettes on Marsh Street. Apparently there was a better one on the north side of town, but that was too close to the Cabarenza for comfort.

Tompson wanted a cup of tea but decided to wait for Talon to get up. He supposed it was rather kind of Talon to be their kitchen runner.

Last night had been a good one. He’d gone to the Horse and Crown to meet Kellen, who’d been late. While he was waiting, some drunk had given him a fiver and told him to find a musician for a party. The rest of the instructions were barely intelligible due to heavy slurring and a heavier accent. Eventually Kay had arrived and they’d had a pint before going out for a walk. Tompson had arrived back at the flat too late to assert dominance over the bed as per the rota as Seaswitch had already done to sleep in it.

As if summoned , Seaswitch emerged, blinking suspiciously into the light, like some cave dwelling creature.

“What?” the bed-stealer asked upon noticing Tompson’s disapproving stare.

“You evil, conniving little fiend.” Tompson responded, not caring how little sense he made.

Seaswitch didn’t even care to decipher whatever minor inconvenience had put Tompson in a bad mood. Despite Tompson seeming feral on occasion, it was about as threatening as a really furious squirrel.

“Did you see Talon go out?”

“No? Damn– I wanted some tea... He’s probably staying the night at a girl’s place.”

Immediately Seaswitch was shaking his head, “No– and he can’t be at work either– he... doesn’t have sex. Weren’t you there when he said?”

“No? What do you mean– he’s like a monk?”

“Well– he said he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t feel it.”

“Really?”

Seaswitch sighed, already regretting mentioning anything, “Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Never mind– he’ll show up.”

* * *

Monday 5th October

Seaswitch sighed again. He was worried he might asphyxiate if he kept that up for too long. He tapped his foot. The woman next to him glared. It was hard to resist the urge to fidget; he hated waiting, and it took absolutely ages for anyone to get a move on at the Laundrettes. And he’d sit still and quiet and then he’d get distracted just as a machine became free and someone else would take it. He hated the laundrettes. Seaswitch didn’t understand why Tompson didn’t do it this time. He even said he enjoyed it because he could just sit and read. Seaswitch would go to the pub while he waited– which had led to a number of his socks being stolen. To make up for it, he’d surreptitiously stolen Gael’s. In fact, the socks stolen from Gael probably were his socks anyway. Seaswitch had once started with a great number of socks, but now he only had three pairs. Part of this was due to the Laundrette’s thief, but part of it was also due to the fact that Seaswitch was exceptionally good at leaving his socks at other people’s houses. Gael said he was beginning a collection of his socks and that he had over nine pairs already. He was talking them hostage and would slowly start returning them one by one over the course of a month.

A mother was struggling to fit a leather jacket among the rest of the washing in the machine. It reminded Seaswitch of Talon; he hadn’t returned last night or the night before either. Tompson couldn’t tell if any of Talon’s clothes were missing because they didn’t really know what Talon’s clothes were. The only thing either of them could remember him wearing was that infernal leather jacket. That wasn’t in the flat, but Talon was never seen without it anyway– probably slept in it too– so that didn’t really give them much information.

“Well it proves that he isn’t here.” A half asleep Tompson had murmured when he pointed it out.

“Great. That’s helpful– I definitely couldn’t have seen that with my own eyes!”

That was probably why Tompson had sent him out to the Laundrettes– Tompson knew he hated the Laundrettes.

Frustrated, Seaswitch shifted in his chair, bouncing his leg. The woman glared at him again.

* *

The sun was beginning to set earlier. The sky had taken on an angry red tint when Seaswitch shuffled into the flat, overweighed by bags of clothes.

Tompson called though from the bathroom, “Stick that somewhere– wait– is that you, Seaswitch?”

Seaswitch dropped the bags, “Who else would it be

Tompson appeared in the bathroom doorway wearing a pair of overalls, “Anyone. Cabarenza. Fuck knows. I left a pair of overalls for you.”

To Seaswitch it seemed that a conversation had happened without him. “Why do I need to wear overalls?”

“3b got tired of you driving his car all the time–”

“I don’t drive his car all the–”

“So, he said we can have his late ex-wife’s car if we fix it up first.”

“Really?”

“Well... he doesn’t actually believe we can fix it. He says that with your mechanical skills we’d be dismantling it for him for free– but if we don’t cock it up then we get a car!”

“You’re looking optimistic.”

Tompson snorted dismissively and waved his hand before returning to the bathroom, “Just stitching up a hole in the shoulder– you’ll find the address on the table.”

Seaswitch looked where he was told and discovered the address; somewhere on the western side of town; the nice part of town, where the majority of shops and hotels resided, smugly staring down the rest of town; the north was shabbier, gloomier and more likely to give you a black eye; the south was non-existent; and finally the east was lived in, used, old, comfortable-ish, like an ancient sofa.

Amongst the bits of paper and bills and dirty glasses and saucer full of cigarette butts that littered the chipped varnish of the table, was a letter, messily addressed ‘Seaswitch – Tompson’. By judging the amount of objects piled on top of it he estimated that it was a few days old.

“Tompson?” Seaswitch asked as he started opening it.

“What?”

“A letter– think it’s Talon’s.”

The writing was scruffy and a cigarette burn had coloured one corner of the paper.

Have enclosed this weeks rent.

Gone to America.

Joined a band.

Maybe I’ll be on the radio, life can be kind.

Maybe you’ll get a role to make up for P. Brook’s Dream.

I hate goodbyes.

Talon.

P.S. Left a portfolio with some work: read at will. A leaving present.

Tompson was reading over his shoulder by the time he was done, chin almost resting on Seaswitch’s shoulder. Probably on tiptoes to do that, even. Silently, Seaswitch handed the thing over for Tompson to complete. A cheque fell from the envelope.

“What does he mean by a portfolio?”

“I don’t know.” Seaswitch responded softly. It felt as if the rug had been pulled from beneath him so slowly that he hadn’t realised until he’d hit the floor. Despite the briefness of the parting missive, the tone. There was a vulnerability suddenly in Talon. Seaswitch realised then, even before they found the sheaf of beautiful words, that Talon was just like them, no matter how far down he kept it, he was fucked. He was a dreamer. He was a poet. There was no hope for any of them, Seaswitch felt; they resided in a world not made for dreamers anymore.

* * *

 

The Beautifly. –For E. Alice A.

A beautifly

Can fly

With papery wings so soft,

Dusted with gold,

So delicate,

Paper-like wings,

Tears of ink,

Their wholeness made

Of poet’s souls

And the words

Of drunken fools,

Delicate,

But the colour of

Determination

In a tiger’s eyes.

There is a sharpness

To your beauty,

There is a danger

To your smile,

That is why you are like

A beautifly not a butterfly,

Because your soft wings

Are made of steel,

Delicate

Like a razor,

Beautiful structure

Cuts my hands like a knife.

- T

* * *

Time passed. Much of it while the occupants of Flat 6b were asleep. A winter had ambushed their sleep schedule suddenly, forcing them into shallow hibernation. There was nothing else to do; they slept fitfully, going out rarely, until time changed and something else interesting would draw themselves out of their seclusion. They went through different boxes of books and read them all, savouring each dimension, each life it brought them to, ignoring the world, ignoring each other, ignoring themselves.

* * *

His body remained stationary, too stationary, corpselike, but his mind travelled far, further than the realm of dreams, past the surface scratches made by the insanity present that contains all human beings, and into the past, the now, the future, the never-happening and the soul consuming. It brought him to the stage. The lights were bright but not enough to hide the audience, patchy as they were, with blank masks strapped to their faces. They watched through frames, some ornate, some simple, that they held in their impersonal gloved hands. He tried to look to his right but struggled– his field of view panned slowly upstage left. There an actor stood. There was no mistaking that in her posture, in the way she moved. There were tears in her eyes, too real. Too bitter. She sank to her knees in front of the impassive crowd. He could see other actors lying on the floor, spent, used, dead. Too great to go, too young, let the show go on. The backdrop fell. Men in suits with cold stares started removing the props from the stage, vases, a beautiful photo frame that smashed on the floor when They knocked it. In Their hands the props turned into money which They pocketed. Next they started on the corpses. She tried to speak but she had no voice. Her meaning rang out in the air anyway.

And NO. Your half-hearted clapping does nothing to ease the ache because, my dear, I just ripped out my soul for your entertainment. Your ineffectual percussion does not soothe the beating the beating of my heart because it was all pointless; you didn’t care, not really. Because all we are are stories to you. All we have are words to beat back the tide of ennui from the shores of human experience. It’s not your fault, perhaps. We give too much, each night, tearing off another piece, too big, and we never get it back! Perhaps it is our fault, for caring too much, for attempting to guide you, to push you, to question you, to make you feel.

We are tempered by falseness, ironic compared to our mission, we are shackled by those in our field who work only for the lights, for the money. There is no shame in that, not in this society. But there is a shame in caring too much. Perhaps we are a rare breed. Perhaps we are dying out. Perhaps we are falsely loud voices screaming in the darkness hoping for something, someone, somewhere out in the audience, to notice. For a connection to be made. For us not to be just faces attached to bodies attached to names attached to fame, bleating out someone else’s words. We sacrifice who we are. We become who we cannot possibly conceive to be. And what for? Entertainment? Is it really that shallow?

But none of this will be said. Never. An uncaring audience is better than none at all, for what are we without a witness?

* * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Third Instalment - pt 3

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Tompson woke to a sharp ache in his neck. As he regained a general awareness of the world, he realised he had been sleeping in Seaswitch’s armchair. It smelt of smoke and Seaswitch and the sharp cologne he wore for a while after birthdays and Christmases. Old smoke. Not fresh smoke. Seaswitch’s grandmother had smoked a pipe, Aggie. The way Seaswitch used to talk about her made Tompson wish he had met her before she died. She probably wouldn’t have liked him, but she’d had an awfully big impact on Seaswitch– far more than his parents.

Seaswitch hadn’t come back. He’d probably stayed at some girl’s house. Or a lock in. Or... Tompson realised suddenly that he did not know Seaswitch nearly as much as he liked to think he did. They’d lived together for two years – Tompson had known him since 1965. But he didn’t know him. That was the problem. He realised their friendship was far more tenuous than he’d originally imagined. Was it even friendship? They shared a flat, they got pissed, they worked together when they, well, worked, but Seaswitch had Gael. Seaswitch had a past in the country. Seaswitch had friends. Who did Tompson have?

He had Kay. They didn’t know each other very well and Kay certainly had other– many other acquaintances, but Tompson had Kay. And Kay had given them... Talon.

As if summoned, the bedroom door opened and Talon walked out with a name badge pinned to his leather jacket. He looked at Tompson slightly mistrustfully, like a wronged cat, but said nothing on his way out. He didn’t really like Tompson all that much, since he could tell Tompson didn’t like him. Still, he couldn’t find himself feeling too strongly about Tompson in either direction.

Tompson was still tired– existing in the chair overnight hadn’t done anything to allay the feeling of all his limbs being too heavy. Physically he was tired, so bloody tired, but his mind was too conscious. He knew if he tried to sleep he’d just be trapped in his thoughts. He entertained the idea of taking a Valium or two but decided on a drink. Several pulls from the absinthe bottle– it was still there as Seaswitch wouldn’t touch it and Tompson had forgotten about it. Seaswitch would drink most things– in fact anything, but he could never get over the taste of absinthe. Tompson almost found it funny. It was barely enough alcohol to work properly but it fettered his thoughts just enough.

When he reached his bed – thankful it was the closest to the door– he noted briefly that Talon had actually slept in Seaswitch’s bed. He was too tired to note anything else and so he sunk promptly into the inky blackness of poet’s idleness.

* *

Tuesday 22nd September 1970

Gael had left Seaswitch at the Thatcher’s Arms, knowing him to have been in a better mood than the night before. Less... Seaswitch did not mind this decision at all; he knew Gael needed to get some shopping in for the older woman over the road and–

Tonker or Tosspot or whatever the lad’s nickname was thunked another beer and chaser on the table.

A group of posh twats– er, Oxford students were in the Horse And Crown with him. This was the third pub in a crawl. Their little social group were “slumming it” in the town for the weekend because one of their members had a family town house in the area. They had recognised Seaswitch’s breeding, if not his general contempt for the world at large, and had absorbed him into their ranks, back at the Thatcher’s Arms, for a laugh.

They were placing bets on how long he could stay conscious, and paying for any of his refills. They were also drinking; babycham’s and rum & blacks. Seaswitch was aware that a hefty amount of money had been spent, but as long as it wasn’t his he didn’t mind.

One of the lads, he felt he couldn’t call them men– this type never really would grow up, but would simply grow in to their father’s shoes behind the mahogany desk of a bank, none the wiser. One of the lads– Rotter, or Roterdam, had placed four pounds on the possibility of Seaswitch not collapsing at all, another had bet five pounds that Seaswitch would collapse after seven rounds, eight pounds on Seaswitch collapsing after twelve pints and chasers – one lad had even bet three pounds on Seaswitch dying.

As the hours staggered on, the group got more and more raucous, one lad affected a French accent and tried to kiss Seaswitch and the barmaid on both cheeks. He just waited patiently, allowing them to fill up his glass each time it was empty. He could feel the bar swaying beneath him and colour started to blur at the peripheries. Christ– he couldn’t feel his feet– he knew he was rather far gone. He would almost be concerned but–

The last of the students slumped against the bar, jostling him, completely out cold. The money they had been betting on him lay on the bar. The woman behind it stared at it, then at him, then winked. He split it between them with an offer for free drinks in the future while she was on shift– as long as he didn’t drink too much. She also whispered something else, a time perhaps, or maybe her address, but it was lost in the noise from the radio and Seaswitch didn’t want to know anyway.

The night was cool but he didn’t want to bother Gael again, so he strolled leisurely back to Mason Street, the walk reminding him of another night, the night of The Incident, after The Incident, walking home. He didn’t want to think about that though. He’d been having a good night.

* *

It was night when Tompson opened his eyes. Talon was in Seaswitch’s bed on the other side of the room, spread-eagled on the floor-bound mattress, half lying on the carpet.

There was a noise from the living room, a muffled curse, a thump, a half-hearted apology to a door frame; Seaswitch. The door was opened slowly, quietly, and with a great deal of concentration. Seaswitch peered in and realised that his bed was taken by a person he’d rather not disturb. Next, he looked at Tompson with something almost approaching fondness in his eyes, but it disappeared as soon as he realised that Tompson was awake. Wordlessly, Tompson moved to the side , drawing back the covers. He judged Seaswitch was too drunk to sleep in the bathtub without accidentally drowning himself. Gratefully, Seaswitch flopped toward the edge of the mattress revealed to him.

Tompson received an errant foot to the shoulder, then an apology. The inebriated one wiggled for a while longer – top and tailing was going badly– before getting up and repositioning himself next to Tompson, head to head.

Tompson didn’t quite know how he felt about Seaswitch being so close. It clearly didn’t bother Seaswitch too much who mumbled a thanks and fell asleep.

*

Tompson was having a hard time falling asleep– he could feel Seaswitch’s flammable breath whispering across his collarbones. Seaswitch wasn’t that close– but nobody had been that close for a few months and so it felt a little odd. He missed the contact– it had been comforting.

Tompson thought he was being a little ridiculous– he was being ridiculous– he was being ridiculous.

He started thinking about the last time anyone had been this close to him– he was still thinking about it when he finally drifted to sleep.

And he didn’t understand– no shirt? No clue. Just going on and on and there were noises in the distance and soft hands rough hands no warm– warm hands, rougher than usual, larger than usual, not too rough, the hands of someone who played with cards all day, and that was when he understood, he looked up, and recognised the face the face he recognised smiled and said something but the distant music was too loud, and the he realised, then he realised, realised what– but no– something was wrong– not a bad wrong just an incorrect wrong– someone was supposed to walk in now– someone was supposed to stop this– but he didn’t want someone to walk in and he didn’t want this to stop because it was already happening, the And Then that had so ruled his thoughts since it happened, and now he had all the time in the world to feel lips rougher than usual, but not rough, not soft, but warm, and the strong lines that should accompany it, expanses of – wrongness, surely, no, incorrect not one of t h o s e, surely, cold, stretching into the cold abyss of the night’s sky Morpheus’ realm where the poets go to die and soft words become harsh and what happens in a rough second becomes longed for and stretched out and leisurely and much further than the reality but perhaps this could be like this– like what– with who– but not now not now not now– forever–

*

Wednesday 23nd September 1970

Seaswitch woke up suddenly with a jolt. Tompson clung to him, still asleep, brows knotted mind still clearly dreaming. Seaswitch winced– Tompson was clutching one of his arms hard where an old bruise was healing, his face pressed into the crook of Seaswitch’s neck. The weak sunlight caught him in the eye from the open curtains above his bed, in which a lightly sleeping Talon resided. He would wake soon. The light roused the headache clearly waiting to ambush him. Ugh. He needed to get up but soon realised that it would be damnedly difficult. As Tompson usually slept in a knot, and Seaswitch usually slept like a corpse, some unconscious compromise must have been reached; Tompson was entwined around him like ivy growing up a tree. An arm flung over his stomach, a leg wrapped aroung his inside thigh and a hand firmly gripping his left arm. At least Seaswitch was fully clothed in what he had been wearing last night, minus his coat, which must have been in the living room.

After five minutes of struggling he thought he managed to get out without waking Tompson.

*

Seaswitch sat in his armchair, trying to sit as straight as possible, in order to avoid provoking the feeling of sickness that lay in his stomach. Perhaps he was hungover, although it could also be whatever he’d eaten last night. The students had eaten some odd food. His own personal experience of meals in wealthy company had been large meals, with meat– venison, steak– large tables and large dishes, whereas these students had had tiny meals– colourful little things drizzled in the middle of a plate. Apparently it had been the only place in the south to serve such meals. Apparently it was the height of cultured cuisine. After they’d left– this was just before they went to the final pub– they’d stopped at a chippies– they were still hungry.

Seaswitch tried to sit up even straighter, but the tension in his core muscles compressed his stomach even more. He wanted to lie down but had a vague inkling that that would make it worse.

It was still early enough that nobody really needed to be up. The sunlight was feeble but still cutting. He watched the sky brighten. From his vantage point looking out of the living room window, he couldn’t see the sun but he could see pinpoints of lights flickering off the rust of the fire escape. He’d always wanted to stand on the fire escape- walk along it, down the ladder until he was by the window of 4b, across, and then down the spiral stairway off the side of the building. It would be like a useful, distressed balcony.

Noises came from the bedroom; stirring of linen, yawns. After a minute, Talon left, shirtless, toothbrush in hand. He was skinnier than he seemed under the jacket, but lean muscle pulled across his frame, stronger than the both of them. He smiled at Seaswitch as he walked by. Yes, Seaswitch decided, he liked the new flatmate. He had a kind face. Seaswitch just needed to stay on the right side of him.

* *

Tompson sat curled around tea and a digestive biscuit, a cigarette held gently between his lips, eyes shut. He looked peaceful, blissful. He’d actually slept last night, properly. In fact, for almost seventeen hours. And he felt rested. Less stressed, his head was tipped back over the backrest, exposing his throat, his shirt buttoned up wrong and Seaswitch could see the small tattoo. It still amused him that Tompson had a tattoo. Eventually Tompson stirred and opened his eyes.

“Talon at work?”

“His day off– he’s in the kitchen.”

Tompson nodded and shut his eyes again. Seaswitch noted that most of the buttons on Tompson’s shirt were going through the wrong holes and the shirt actually looked too tall for him. It took him a moment to recognise it as one of his own shirts– Tompson must have run out. One of them would need to make the trip to the laundrettes soon. Suddenly Tompson’s eyes flickered open sharply–

“The kitchen? Does he know about the–”

A crash thundered from the kitchen.

Tompson picked up a hardback thesaurus he’s been gifted by his aunt Nora, Seaswitch rolled up a stolen newspaper. They paused at the kitchen door– looked at each other– nodded in time– like they did in the movies– then Seaswitch flung open the door and they both jumped into the room– weapons raised– screaming a vocal warm up as a battle cry.

Talon didn’t know what hit him. All three yelled incomprehensibly at each other.

“Where is it?!” Seaswitch screeched, only to be interrupted by Tompson, who appeared to be channelling the entirety of the American crime genre–

“I’ll kill you, ya mangy sonofabitch!”

And the room settled into silence and heavy breathing.

Talon took a moment to compose himself. “What... It may seem strange me asking, but what the fuck is going on?”

On the floor lay the saucepan that must have fallen off the top of the cupboards where the plates were kept. Confused, Tompson and Seaswitch looked around the small room for the thing, which was nowhere to be seen. It hadn’t attacked Talon. That was unheard of.

“You didn’t... see anything?” queried Tompson, wondering whether they’d need to look for a new flatmate so soon.

Talon snorted, “Yeah, I saw your pet– don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Poor bloody thing... Looked terrified out of its wits. A rescue, is it?”

Talon stared at them. They stared at him. He began to feel slightly concerned with the people he was living with when they still did not answer. Both of them, Seaswitch and the shorter, angrier one, just stared, like robots being recalibrated. The short one– Tompson– started laughing. It wasn’t a kind laugh, nor a cruel laugh. It had a sinister, hysterical edge to it that had Talon backing out of the room, grabbing his coat and heading to the pub, hoping that they’d be normal by the time they returned.

After a while, Seaswitch turned to Tompson, a rictus grin stretching across his face, “Hear that? We’ve done it. We’ve frightened the fucker. It’s scared of us!”

They stood there for a few minutes more, relishing being able to stand in their own kitchen, like normal people, un-attacked by a hideous sadistic beast about the size of a sock.

Good things never last.

There was a rustle. Then a scrape. Then a low, low growl. The kind of sound that pure malice would make. The being that had kept it at bay had just departed, leaving it with two objects. Two objects labelled TARGET.

* * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Third Instalment pt 2

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

Monday 21st September 1970

There was a bit more bite to the air. Tompson sipped his hot chocolate. Madison had made him one after she’d noticed that there was very little food in the cupboards, and what was there probably wasn’t edible. She and wazzizname had nearly finished boxing all their stuff up; they’d nearly found the right place to move out into.

He hadn’t thought what it would be like without them... Seaswitch would probably say that they would have less choice in the music they listened to and would only be subjected to jazz from over the road. Tompson wouldn’t mind that too much. He shut his eyes. He really wanted a drink. He wasn’t as shameless as Seaswitch who had no qualms about tricking people into buying a round. One thing Seaswitch would do was to go to the men’s bog when it was near his turn, or leave his wallet at home. Well, Seaswitch usually left his wallet at home; he had a terrible memory and there was currently nothing in his wallet anyway. There were a lot of people scattered through the town’s pubs who were willing to buy Seaswitch a drink, even those who disliked him. Although they were probably just buying Seaswitch a drink to slip something in it.

Vivian Callow was being ruthless in her collection of the rent –

Seaswitch slumped into the living room still in his nightshirt. There was an old bruise on his neck that Tompson hadn’t noticed before. When had that... Seaswitch had gone to the pub a few days ago. He’d probably picked up a girl, and Gael had probably picked up the bar tab. Poor bloke.

“You’re up late.”

Seaswitch was barely awake, his face crumpled into a confused scowl, “Late for what?”

A sigh, “The new bloke’s coming today.”

Seaswitch sneered, “Yeah? And he probably wants help carrying his stuff up three flights of stairs? I’m not sticking around to playact a butler for this– what is he? A student? I’ll go to the pub when the time comes.” The walking ball of sober resentment flopped into his armchair ungracefully. “When is he coming anyway?”

Tompson smiled faintly, “Eleven thirty.”

“Right.” Seaswitch accepted, sharply, pulling a pack of cigarettes out from under a cushion.

“He might be really nice, you know,” Began Tompson in a gentle manner, “He might even–”

“Oh shut up. I’m not in the mood to have you fill my head with your useless overused platitudes.”

Tompson surreptitiously checked his watch– it was just coming up to eleven. Seaswitch noticed this movement and checked his watch too. “Aha!” He crowed, “You were trying to hide it weren’t you– I'm not sticking around to meet this– this. Interference.”

“You agreed.”

Seaswitch failed to hide his indignation, “You used– I could barely think straight! You used that against me!”

Tompson checked his watch again. Seaswitch did the same.

“Eleven,” Seaswitch stated, “I’ll get going–” He grabbed his coat– the keys fell out of his pocket– bent down and picked them up– opened the door– and froze.

Tompson had lied about the time the new tenant was arriving. Tompson knew Seaswitch too well. Tompson smiled at his own deviousness, stepped forward to meet the new tenant himself– and froze.

Thick black motorcycle boots. The gleam of a shaven head. Heavy black jacket. The threatening bulge of muscles underneath clothing. Calm eyes. Eyes that people did not say ‘no’ to. This was probably out of fear. The survival instinct of the human race was too strong to say no to this man. Broad shoulders. A surprisingly handsome face. Large hands. Were those bruises on his knuckles?

Immediately Seaswitch regretted every choice he had ever made. He was going to die, here, in this flat, perhaps not today, but soon, when he said something wrong, or said anything, or– oh god, if Seaswitch opened his mouth they would all be dead, crushed, pulped, by this tower of muscle in front of them. The man had a kind face, but the– those weren’t bruises on his knuckles; they were words.

Tompson wouldn’t say he had anything against tattoos– he would consider it rather hypocritical if he did– but he was terrified by the wording across the knuckles;

‘F U C K Y O U’ they read, a blank space on one knuckle as “you” was not a four letter word.

Seaswitch had maintained the suspicion for a while that Tompson was actually a hypocrite. Had he known of Tompson’s first thoughts about the man, he’d be smug.

The man smiled.

After Seaswitch’s initial shock, he attempted to smile politely back, and offered his hand as a sacrifice. The man gripped it firmly, a little too firmly– Seaswitch had to suppress a wince– but not cruelly.

“Talon.” He said.

“What is?” Seaswitch asked, feeling Tompson wince behind him.

“I am.”

Seaswitch nodded, realising that Tompson was too terrified to take over the conversation, “Oh, of course– sorry. Why don’t you come in?”

Another smile, “Thanks.” A heavy bag thunked to the floor. “Where’s my bed?”

Seaswitch turned to Tompson, who was still frozen in place, staring at Talon. Damn. Seaswitch didn’t know what Tompson’s plans were. Didn’t wasn’t to upset Talon though; despite his slightly innocent infectious smile that was at odds with the rest of his appearance, Talon was nearly as tall as Seaswitch.

Something about the way stood made him seem massive, strong. He was actually rather stringy; wiry muscles that could still puree Seaswitch, but were actually less intimidating. Talon was a good head above Tompson, but Seaswitch was a good head, shoulders and hat above Tompson. Tompson was just short– no matter how much he protested otherwise. Seaswitch tried to think charitably; at least Tompson wasn’t so short that it affected his acting– not that they’d done much of that recently– and he wasn’t shorter than most of the actresses. Well, apart from the tall ones, of course. Seaswitch gave up; Tompson was short– that was that– it couldn’t be that Seaswitch was ridiculously tall. Seaswitch felt he was the perfect height. The definitive height. It was just everybody else that was weird.

Talon was looking at him expectantly. Bed, of course– hah– Seaswitch was getting lost in his thought like Tompson. Dreadful. He hoped it would never happen again; he had things to do. Like leaving and going to the pub.

“Uh, come this way, mate.” Seaswitch instructed, throwing in a ‘mate’ in case it made Talon like him more, and leading him to the bedroom. “Use this one.” He pointed at Tompson’s bed. A distant hiss of approval carried from the living room as Tompson realised what happened.

Talon gently grabbed Seaswitch’s arm while brushing his spiky hair out of his face, “Is he okay? Only... seems a bit odd.”

“Odd?”

“Is he... you know...”

A minor spike of stress, “What? Oh... er– no. No.”

“...Okay. So, what’s the cost arrangement then?”

Blankness. “I have absolutely no fucking clue– ” Talon laughed loudly– “Usually Tompson does things and Vivian just takes the money– do you have a job?”

“Yeah. Vivian? Tompson?”

“OH! Sorry! I’m Seaswitch– that’s Tompson, Vivian– uh– Mrs Callow’s the landlady. Avoid her.”

“Okay.”

“Right... I’m going to the pub so I’ll leave you–“

“Oh, I’ll come with you.”

Damn, “Okay.”

* *

During their time at the Thatcher’s Arms, Seaswitch had decided about Talon. He didn’t mind him, they got on mostly well together, Tompson was terrified of him, Seaswitch was slightly less terrified of him. Seaswitch was scared of Talon’s motorbike though. It looked intelligent. Sentient. Predatory. Also it was a magnet for other motorbikes, and motorbike riders, and crushing handshakes, and mistrustful glares. It was only a matter of time before one of them took a dislike to him, so Seaswitch made his excuses and left early. He walked back. The ride there had been... an experience he wouldn’t like to repeat.

When he got back to the flat, Seaswitch found Tompson nervously smoking a cigarette, lips reddened from worrying at them with his teeth, the paper stuck to his lower lip. They were the cigarettes from under Seaswitch’s armchair. He knew Tompson stole them; he just didn’t see the point in calling him out on it.

Tompson eventually looked up. “Did you get rid of him?”

He wished Tompson would stop being so suspicious about Talon; yes, Seaswitch wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, but he was alright– and they were out of food– and Tompson couldn’t get a job yet– and Seaswitch was incapable of getting a job– and it was another few days before his allowance came through.

“Why are you being so unreasonable?”

Confusion blinked across Tompson’s face, “What?”

“You were planning on kicking him out when we need the money and he needs a place to stay– why– just because you took a disliking to him?”

“So you chose this moment– when a bloody nutter’s around– to become a good fucking person? I don’t buy it. You’re a prat. You’re cold– you’re uncaring– Christ– you’re lucky people stick around you– when was the last time you showed any emotion? You might as well be a machine– – never seeing women– drinking yourself to death. You’re just fucking miserable!”

Tompson almost regretted what he’d said, especially when Seaswitch’s face went carefully blank. When he next spoke, Seaswitch’s voice was level, monotone, quiet, “Christ, you can really be a bastard sometimes, Tompson.”

Seaswitch still had his coat on, so he didn’t hesitate when he left. The door clicked shut quietly behind him.

*

Tompson couldn’t wallow in vague guilt for long. Talon entered as if he had always lived there. Tompson was too busy wondering where those words he’d said to Seaswitch had come from.

Tompson and Talon did not talk to each other. Once the silence had grown, it was harder and harder to break. Tompson read his books in silence, Talon unpacked his belongings. When that was done, Tompson stared out of the window waiting for Seaswitch to come back and Talon polished his boots.

* * * *

Gael sipped his hot chocolate. He regretted it instantly; it was too hot. He’d always struggled with hot drinks. He usually had to wait for them to cool down, and by that time he’d have forgotten about it. When he finally remembered, it would be completely cold. Either that, or he’d catch it at the perfect temperature and take a few sips– he didn’t like chugging liquids– put it down to do something and then forget about it. A not-so-circle of cruelty.

He looked around his bedsit. It was small, cramped and filled with void; it was perfect. Seaswitch had helped him to move in. On the table they’d found cheap was one of Seaswitch’s books– he’d left it behind at one point and Gael had forgotten to return it– and then he’d gotten bored and had read it himself– and now he was finally prepared to part with the book and to return it to Seaswitch.

Gael was contented; he was finally settling in to the town. He didn’t see Ollie as often as he used to and that was a shame but they both had other people to see. In fact, Ollie was going away for a few months for a play– something Russian apparently.

Gael wanted to get a cat.

He was tired– sleepy– drifting in and out– he struggled to order his thoughts. He knew he couldn’t fall asleep in the chair– his spine would hate him in the morning.

Noise.

Knocking on the door.

Sleepy.

Knocking on the door.

Gael shook his head and woke more– stood up too quickly and all the blood rushed to his head. He made it over to the door and opened it, damaging the rusty chain in the process. It had been raining– he could tell from the state of Seaswitch’s hair. Seaswitch looked up and relief spread across his features– interrupted by a sharp twist of self-hatred. Gael disliked that– the self-hatred of Seaswitch’s– but there was little he could do as the cause and the cure.

“Come in.” And Gael smiled, faintly, but persistently. He would always smile.

* * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

The Third Instalment pt.1 The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b — - warning: awful dialect writing

Monday 31st August 1970 – James K. Jallofat by William Kean Seymour

The feeling spread throughout the flat, throughout the street, the town, the country. Perhaps it wasn’t the pagan end of the summer, but it was an ending of sorts. Endings were everywhere; yesterday the Isle of Wight festival had finished, and people trooped back into their lives after having been so alive, plagues by dreams of forgotten smiles, Joni Mitchell, and the shuffling of a body of people who are all too drunk to watch where they are going. Here though, it was the feeling of watching the sun set while sitting in a cornfield with a bottle in hand. It was the feeling of bronze, yellow, copper, hazy gold. It was the wistful nostalgia that hovered around the corner, out of sight, feeling it all the same despite still experiencing the moment. The feeling that nothing would be the same again. That, while there still would be a summer next year, one would be almost too old to experience it. A few weeks to go until the official ending of the summer, but it was the Autumn Equinox of the soul.

Tompson had been outside on the park bench, watching the sun as it began to turn red, feeling ridiculous and sentimental. If Seaswitch could see him, he’d probably sneer, Tompson felt. Make some comment about how he read too much poetry. Tompson didn’t think he even read much poetry. Certainly not compared to Seaswitch, anyway. The dramatic tosser had taken to quoting poetry at inappropriate moments. Like when a miserly old director had waddled by, Seaswitch had grinned maliciously and had started quoting a poem Tompson had never heard of.

*For meanwhile, out in the light of day,* Seaswitch had said, causing heads to turn,

*Something suddenly seized J.K.,*

*A horrible twinge, a burning spasm,*

*A plunging fall in a flaming chasm,*

*And a harsh voice heard in a savage yell,*

*“James K. Jallofat, go to Hell,*

*Get you down to the Devil!*

The director had tried to hit Seaswitch with his walking cane.

A car fumed by, drawing Tompson out of his thoughts. He wanted a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. Something nice. He forced himself to move down the path, towards the crossroads and down towards Mason Street.

*

When he finally got to 6b, he was surprised to see Seaswitch leaning at an angle out of the living room window onto the fire escape. Tompson’s first thought was that Seaswitch was fixing the crack– but he’d never do that. He was watching the sky, the sun, taking on its dying hue, with an expression on his face that matched Tompson’s feeling precisely. Seaswitch shut his eyes, feeling the warmth on his face. Tompson had forgotten to shut the door and now an errant breeze slammed it closed., Seaswitch startled, nearly falling out of the window, but catching himself on the rusty bar of the disused fire escape. It creaked under the slight pressure, a bolt coming lose from the wall. Seaswitch leapt backwards– and into the approaching Tompson. They got knocked to the floor, stunned, tangled together for a moment.

Seaswitch wasn’t particularly heavy, Tompson’s brain observed, and he was warm. Tompson was a bit cold from walking through shaded streets on the way back. He did not shove Seaswitch from him as fast as he might usually. He wanted to leech some of the warmth off him first. Seaswitch stood up. The warmth was gone.

Seaswitch thought Tompson, short, skinny, little Tompson, lying on the floor below him looking slightly squashed was a comical sight. Pulchara. That kept him in a good mood. According to Tompson it was he who was of a ridiculous height. Seaswitch didn’t think he was tall, just most other people were short. It infuriated Tompson to no end to be called short. That too, Seaswitch found hilarious.

Tompson’s cheeks were slightly too pink from the sun, his hair was messy, curls exploding onto the floor. Seaswitch stuck his hand down to help Tompson up.

“Cheers.”

Seaswitch looked back at the window and closed it, shutting out the slowly waning day, shame; it felt like the turning of the seasons. Even Tompson looked slightly wistful.

An Idea struck him. He acted on it before thinking.

“Come on, we’ll go for a drive,” He said while Tompson brushed himself down.

“Wh– where?” Tompson just looked confused, as if some sour maiden aunt had just appeared in a red dress and stared dancing the can-can.

“Doesn’t matter.” Seaswitch shoved a light jacket at him because he often complained of the cold. Tompson caught it before it hit the floor, still frowning.

“We don’t have a car.”

Seaswitch tried smiling confidently. He wasn’t sure it worked. “2a does, he won’t mind!”

A hint of a grin traced its way onto Tompson’s features, “Oh! You’r gossiping partner...”

A dark eyebrow arched, “I... do not gossip, I merely trade information for the betterment of my life.”

“Mmmm, yes of course.” Tompson teasingly conceded, unsure why Seaswitch was in such a good mood, but not wanting it to stop.

Seaswitch grabbed the last two bottles of beer and flung himself dramatically out of the door, commentating, “ And they’re off!”

* *

They’d done exactly what Tompson had been imagining. They’d sat in a field on Tompson’s coat drinking the last of the beer and watched the sun go down.

Seaswitch had watched, carefully, out of the corner of his eye almost, the way the reddening sun caught the copper-bronze in Tompson’s hair, turning it almost gold, and vice versa. Seaswitch had felt that there would always be something wonderfully metallic about Tompson’s hair in the sun, even when time eroded the rest of the world; the metals would just exchange with silver.

It was dark when they got back. Strangely, emotionally exhausted. Tompson shivered despite the coat. Not unhappy. Definitely not. Just... filled with a great sense of achievement, of happiness, of contentment, that had just passed. Filled with something that was over. It tingled to the tips of his fingers; filled with ending.

Seaswitch had been in such a good mood... but not. It... it felt almost as if he were acting– but not. Not as if he were putting on a brave face but. Tompson couldn’t think about it clearly.

Tompson hung up his coat and things went a little fuzzy. The coffee he’d had was wearing off. He was tired; Tompson found he was always tired these days. He couldn’t sleep, but even when he could, nothing would dent the fatigue. This evening had been a goof evening though. Tompson found lighter. If this were some book, or a film, where everything ended perfectly, then Seaswitch would turn around and smile–

Seaswitch smiled, warm, like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud.

“So, did you have a good day?” He would say, warm eyes looking down into the girl’s. She’d tip her head to the side coquettishly,

“Maybe...”

A Hollywood nose-scrunch-smile at the token oddball female and, “Come on, explain...”

“Well,” She would say and the almost sexual eye contact would ramp up a notch, “You never know how much you’ve enjoyed yourself until it’s all over.”

“Hmm,” He’d say, “Then I guess I’d better see you again, just to check.” –

Tompson nearly fell asleep against the wall, still holding onto his coat on the coat-rack-chair. God he must be sleep deprived to morph Seaswitch into an American heartthrob.

Seaswitch looked at him, the real Seaswitch, and smiled a little. He walked away. The kitchen unlocked. “You look dead on your feet.” Seaswitch called, “Don’t make me be the responsible one.”

“Mmmf.” Actually, Tompson felt he might be able to sleep tonight.

“Go on, you insufferable nightmare.” But there was little malice in his tone.

Tompson went off to bed. Seaswitch lounged in his armchair, formerly Grandmother Aggie’s, watching the candle burn down, and the cigarette turn to ash in the tray. He’d started using candles more often as the lamps woke Tompson up, and Seaswitch had decided that he needed more sleep.

Seaswitch’s mind turned to Aggie again. He’d lived with her for a few years as a late teenager, around the time her husband had disappeared. Seaswitch had never met him; he’d been absent for years, working overseas. He had written regular letters to Aggie, though. That was why it had taken three months to realise he was missing. Seaswitch didn’t even know his first name, only ever heard his referred to as Mr. Seaswitch senior, or ‘that man, yer grandfather’. Aggie had told his seventeen year old self interesting and clearly shamelessly embellished stories about his grandfather’s travels. Another thing they’d bonded over was a mutual hatred of Malcolm Barnes; Seaswitch’s father. It was because of him that Aggie had been made to move from Yorkshire once she got older and her husband worked away from her. She shared numerous negative tales of Malcolm. What his father had said in the far past was a grand distraction from whatever his father had said to him the week before; that had been his reasoning back then. Aggie used to smoke a pipe. She’d gotten him one for his eighteenth; he didn’t smoke pipes but he kept it in a drawer somewhere. It was one of the things he hadn’t pawned.

His mother, Eunice, had been nearly inconsolable when Mr. Seaswitch had disappeared, thinking he was in danger, or hurt. Aggie had taken a very different perspective; there were lots of pretty, tanned, young women, who might take interest in a wealthy Englishman. She said he was probably enjoying himself.

A younger Seaswitch had asked her why she wasn’t saddened by his disappearance and she’d chuckled at him good naturedly.

*Ah were younger’n’ thou when Ah married him– and yer mother came along. We were lucky nobody noticed the bump at wedding, but there were rumours.... Ah’m sixty-one now... Well, baby kept me busy for a while because yer grandfather’nd me dint get on. Ye see, the secret t’a happy marriage is one o’the poor buggers being far away and his job in Eeuurope provided that. Eunice moved out and Ah were all alone. – Don’t look soppy ye ridiculous boy– Ah’m enjoyin mesself! Nobody asking for washing or money, no one going out all hours an’ wondering back in with’a drunk young man. Hmm? No, yer mother was t’quiet one. Ah like to be left to read, and have drunk young men of me own over. Wipe that expression off yer face, thou look gormless.*

He’d learnt his acidity and audacity from her; a wonderful woman who, sadly, knew him too well. This was why he didn’t receive his inheritance from her in a lump sum but in a small monthly allowance. She knew him. She would have laughed if she’d seen how quickly Tompson’s stolen gang money had disappeared; Vivian had stopped their little arrangement for whatever reason and had demanded the rent.

The rest was a meagre amount that went into buying enough wine to drown the sorrows of spending the money and being back to where they started. A vicious irony. According to Tompson, The Artist– the pompous git anticlimactically named Dave– hadn’t paid as much as he’d said, and the money was running out. Tompson was the one who dealt with that kettle of fish. Tompson was the responsible.

Tompson didn’t look so happy anymore. Like the joy was slowly being sucked out. Like he expected Seaswitch to laugh at him for feeling emotions. They were actors for chrissakes.

Did he really give of that impression? Was he that much of a bastard that Tompson had written him off?

Seaswitch shifted in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t understand how Tompson could stay up so late, or roam around in the disgustingly unreasonable early hours; how could anyone bear to be stuck in their head for so long? Seaswitch felt awful after only a few minutes. Or perhaps, Seaswitch thought, it might just be his head. His paternal uncle, Mr. Collins, had been insane... They weren’t blood relatives but maybe you could catch it through.... osmosis or something scientific sounding.

Tompson seemed to be the kind of person to think a lot. Maybe he stared out of the Maths room window at school and watched the raindrops chase each other to the bottom. Seaswitch could almost imagine a young Tompson with messier hair scribbling over his exercise books. Or perhaps he’d been a more studious child. Seaswitch supposed he would never know; Tompson seldom talked about himself.

The candle flickered. The room dipped darker momentarily. Had he locked the kitchen properly? Yes, he could remember doing so. But was he certain? Psshht. He stood up to check anyway, taking a quick drag from his cigarette as he did so. The door was definitely locked. The cigarette wasn’t his usual brand, but he’d taken it from his coat. Gael must have slipped it in there. Gael. Seaswitch felt an involuntary smile ghost across his face. How did the Welshman do it? How did he seem to happy and relaxed all the time and simultaneously have people listen to hi and give him respect? It was a mystery to Seaswitch, who’d found that being nice only got him ignored and humiliated. Although, he conceded, he might use his grandmother’s acerbic tongue a little too much. Oh well, it was too late to change now.

A small thought began to grow. It unsettled him. It grew into a question, an image, an outcome, something he could feel buzzing under the cage of his chest. He couldn’t think clearly, he never could, neither could Tompson, they couldn’t remember things in chronological order, Seaswitch was sometimes unaware that he existed, sometimes he forgot things– important things, to eat, how to spell his name, Tompson was lost so lost, he was always lost in his thoughts, dragged back into the real world by some inane distraction, but, but, but what if one day Tompson went into his mind and never came back– what would Seaswitch do– what if Seaswitch forgot who he was– why– why– why– weren’t his thoughts clear– he had no control over them, no control over himself, only one thing he could control; he could make things worse. This would be his decision. He had made it through most of his life. His action. The one thing that proved that he wasn’t choiceless, helpless, a product of his upbringing, a voctim of circumstance, a victim of the universe – he was only a victim of himself. He could live with that.

Seaswitch hadn’t notices that he had been falling asleep. Dreams caught him and he slipped seamlessly into the palace of Morpheus...

* * *

“I'm sorry, you mean to say this is the last bottle of wine?”

Tompson stared at him, sleepy and uncomprehending, “Mmmmhmmm... wass problem with it?”

Seaswitch paused, as if to suck out all the venom out of the air, “It. Is. Empty.”

* * *

“I’ve seen Vivian prowling around the area.”

“Really? Haven’t seen her for a while– what day is it?”

“... Thursday. Second of the month.”

* * *

Seaswitch hissed as he stabbed his finger with the needle. There would be more stitches in him than the shirt if he wasn’t careful. A dark drop of blood welled up and he moves his hand to avoid staining the shirt. Tompson had been walking past and a stripe of crimson dashed across his arm.

“Oh– be more bloody careful.”

“Fuck off.” Seaswitch internally winced at the uninspired nature of his retort but he did not have the energy to think of something more cutting.

“No– I– needed to talk to you.”

Seaswitch sighed dramatically in response.

Tompson continued, undaunted, “One of us needs to get a job.”

Too tired to think; “Alright.”

“Or,” Tompson held up a finger, “Listen– we get someone else in.”

Seaswitch dredged up some energy from the remains of his pit-like soul, “Forgive me, just what are you wittering about?”

Tompson flicked him, “Ssh. A third flat sharerer – tenant... To split the cost– and if they have a job– well, between your allowance, their job and my, er, odd-jobs, then we’d definitely have it all covered– including wine.”

Unsubtle lethargy crawled across Seaswitch’s brain; he didn’t have the strength to contest and argue and state that he didn’t want anyone else sticking their nose in his business, “Mmmfh. Mmmkay.”

* * *

“Ah! Tompson Peter Tompson! Knew you couldn’t resist my unending charm...”

Tompson raised one eyebrow. Kellen dissolved into laughter and sank into the chair. Carefully wiping his eye he murmured, “I’m fabulous, really...”

Tompson didn’t quite know what to say; Kellen seemed to be a one-man-band in terms of sociability. It was almost a shame to disturb him

“Kay, –”

“Yes?”

“I– ”

“How can I help you?”

Tompson stared at him, seeing if he was finished speaking. Kay huffed a laugh, “I can probably help by being quiet, correct?”

“Huh– right. Do you know someone who... wants to join a flatshare?”

“Hmm... Let me check through my mental inventory...”

What? “Mental inventory?”

“Shh– shh. Sometimes I have to be dramatic– I will be over it– just let me be dramatic first. – Oh! There is a person of interest to you; Talon.”

“Talon? What’s his second name?”

The usual spark in Kellen’s eye was momentarily replaced with deep searching, and finally confusion, “I... don’t actually know– just– Talon Talon I suppose...”

Tompson nodded, accepting this without question. Questioning it would only lead to answers and other questions and, with Kellen, it would eventually lead to a headache and a strong need for a drink.

“How do you know him?”

“Darling, I know everyone. – Why do you want a Talon?”

The wording threw Tompson for a moment, “Uh– oh, things are–”

“Tight? Don’t worry– I won’t bring it up again.” Murmured the enigmatic friz of firey hair, a smile growing, “I’ll get some whiskeys in...”

* * *

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch

[darling-its-blue-and-gay]

Sharper Dreams Often Prophetic

The Unusual Tenants Of Flat 6b

(This is a section that fits in the middle of The Third Installment but I wrote it separately so it’s already digitised)

His body remained stationary, too stationary, corpse-like, but his mind travelled far, further than the realm of dreams, past the surface scratches made by the insanity present that contains all human beings, and into the past, the present, the future, the never-happening and the soul consuming. It brought him to the stage. The lights were bright but not enough to hide the audience, patchy as they were, with blank masks strapped to their faces. They watched through frames, some ornate, some simple, that they held in their impersonal gloved hands. He tried to look to his right but struggled - his field of view panned slowly upstage left. There an actor stood. There was no mistaking that in her posture, in the way she moved. There were tears in her eyes, too real. Too bitter. She sank to her knees infront of the impassive crowd. He could see other actors laying on the floor, spent, used, dead. Too great to go, too young, let the show go on. The backdrop fell. Men in suits with cold stares started removing the props from the stage, vases, a beautiful photo frame that smashed on the floor when They knocked it. In their hands, the props turned into money, which they pocketed. Next they started on the corpses. She tried to speak but she had no voice. Her meaning rang out in the air anyway.

*And NO. You half-hearted clapping does nothing to ease the ache because, my dear, I just ripped out my soul for your entertainment. Your ineffectual percussion does not soothe the beating of my heart because it was all pointless; you didnt care, not really. Because all we are are stories to you. All we have are words to beat back the tide of ennui from the shores of human experience. It’s not your fault, perhaps. We give too much, each night, tearing off another piece, too big, and we never get it back! Perhaps it is our fault, for caring too much, for attempting to guide you, to push you, to question you, to attempt to make you feel.

We are tempered by falseness, ironic compared to our mission, we are shackled by those in our field who work only for the lights, for the money. There is no shame in that, not in this society. But there is a shame in caring too much. Perhaps we are a rare breed. Perhaps we are dying out. Perhaps we are falsely loud voices screaming in the darkness hoping for something, someone, somewhere out in the audience, t notice us. For a connection to be made. For us not to be just faces attached to bodies attached to names attached to fame, bleating out someone else’s words. We sacrifice who we are. We become who we cannot possibly conceive to be. And what for? Entertainment? Is it really that shallow?

But none of this will be said. Never. An uncaring audience is better than none at all, for what are we without a witness?*

**I don’t know how to do italics on here but it was supposed to be italicised

@astridcontramundum

#original writing #tompswitch