Day 9, 11:15

Sunday morning at the Strawberry Shortcake. Martin plays with the sugar bowl, gently flattening the brown crystalline surface with the back of the spoon, then piling it up into one corner. If a round sugar bowl can be said to have a corner. The waitress clears his coffee cup away, and he looks at his watch. He's been here over half an hour already, waiting. Something's wrong this Sunday, he knows, and knowing it is Dave he is waiting for, is worried.


The party was winding down in a languid conversation about obscure allergies, and Martin felt the need for some fresh air, solitude and sleep. A slight shift in his position nudged Dave's head off his knee enough to let him stand up. The head flopped back into the warm hollow of the chair. "Y'goan?"

"Yes," and, at the door, to the rest of the room, "'night people," then he was into the porch, closing the door on any cat which may be thinking of going out, and on Dave's "Wai' f'me." His feet were too numb to notice the cold of the boots he shoved them into, but he shivered against the chill of his coat. He pulled it tight, and left. More snow had settled since he'd arrived at Kay's, although the sky had now cleared, and he crunched along the pavement trying to follow what footprints there were, failed, and got wet socks for his efforts. The door slammed behind him.

"Hey, wai' f'me!" Dave was running after him, arms flailing, outstretched, trying to keep balance against the battered soles of his trainers, his insobriety, and his coat flapping behind him, rattling with the contents of its pockets. Martin reached the end of the street and stopped, out of habit more than anything else, which gave Dave time to catch up and finish off the hunk of cold garlic bread he was carrying. The road was still covered by whitish snow, too recently fallen with too little traffic to start it on its inevitable path to sooty slush. Martin crossed, Dave beside bounding from wheel-track to wheel track, and headed up a side-street. "Hey!" He kept going, long stride, sure footed on crisp snow, Dave in the wheel ruts on the street was alternating trotting with slightly more stable walking to keep up.

"Hey, where're y'goan?"

"Home," not even looking round as he cut across the road to take the turn coming up.

"This way?"

"Uh-huh." Swing right here, past that bush with its broad, waxy leaves laden, heavy icing on a fragmented cake, zig-zag through the houses, taking the cuts from the bottom of one cul-de-sac to the next.

"Where're y'goan ta cross th'river?" He told him. "Oh. I s'pose so." They fell back into silence, one striding the pavement, one dancing along the ruts. Bear left, down here to that sort-of mini-roundabout. What had he done to deserve being landed with Dave, when he'd just wanted to get peacefully drunk? And having failed to push him off his knee, twice, failed to leave him behind, how was he to get rid of him? Turn. Maybe he shouldn't get rid of him. Someone really should look after him when he was in this state, and he was his friend. A very good friend. Why should Dave want it to be anything more than that? Turn. Why did he want it to be only that? He kicked a bank of snow into a plume that managed to look white despite the incessant orange of the streetlights. Obvious. But not obvious to Dave, also obvious, and increasingly less obvious to him. Alcohol and cold. Where do you cease being friends, and let something else take over? Or can it merely look like something else, remaining, in truth, friendship? Turn. Dave had stopped at the corner.

"Hey, hold up!" This time he did. "Wrong way. Y' goan roun' in circles. Tha's back to Kay's, tha' way." Martin walked slowly back towards him. "Look." From one of the coat pockets, Dave produced a compass. "See? Th'river's tha' way." And he headed off, dancing down the ruts, Martin, this time, in his wake.

They stopped on the bridge and looked at the icy waters. "FISH!" Dave shouted at the fish, but they didn't hear. "Coffee?" Martin turned, leaned against the balustrade, a point of stony solidity across the small of his back. He nodded. Dave grinned, and resumed the walk. "'s it me, or is snow reeely tha' sparkly?"

"It's you. You're stoned."

"Oh, yeah. Forgot."

In the end, they arrived at Martin's place first, a room in a big old house at the edge of the campus. Dave let his coat clatter to the floor, and flopped on the bed, Martin busied himself with the coffee.Why was he doing this? He put Dave's mug down by the bed and ensconced himself in the oriel window. The plumbing grumbled dispepticly, and a car hissed by. So what happens now?

"We could stay up and listen to the dawn chorus," said Dave.

"It's the middle of sodding winter. There's not going to be a dawn chorus."

"Oh." Sobering up, still high, getting tired. So what happens now? Martin put his coffee down, and curled up where he was for some implausible sleep. He'd probably get a stiff neck sleeping next to the window. "Don't sleep there." Dave had shuffled over, flopped a hand at the space on the bed next to him. They looked at each other. Martin dropped his eyes to his mug. "Okay." There was a thump as Dave rolled off the bed. "Okay." Martin looked up to find him lying on the floor, apparently comfortably wrapped in his coat. "Go on. 's your bed, I'm alright here." Martin didn't move.


The grating of a chair on the flagstone floor brought him out of his reverie. Dave dropped into the chair opposite him, not quite as worried as Martin expected him to be, but nearly. There were two capuccinos and a couple of pancakes on the table between them.

"I took the liberty of ordering, to make up for being late." He grinned, lop-sided and rather humourless. Martin shook his head, and started playing with the choclate on the frothy head of coffee before him. Dave stared intently at his own, divining the future in the brown flecks, he claimed. "Things look bad."

"I guessed something was wrong. I know you're not exactly punctual, but..."

Dave sighed, leaned his elbows on the table and stared at Martin with tired eyes. "I'm scared," he said. Martin saw that the collar of his jacket was turned in to hide the triangle, usually worn so defiantly. "They've decided enough is enough, and want me out of the picture. I've seen them at the last couple of gigs, watching me, and following me afterwards." His voice was quick, breathless. "I don't know what to do," then, catching himself, looking quickly around as though he might be overheard, he dropped his voice to its normal pitch. "I don't know what they're going to do. I can't even make any plans."

Martin took a sip of coffee, scalded his tongue. "Shit. What do you think they're cleared to do?"

"Not a clue. Possibly anything they like, as long as there's no direct link to the authorities. If they were being legal, I'd be OK, but I've stuck to their rules so they need to step outside them to get shot of me. That's what I'm so scared about."


An extract from Incidental Music for the Death of the King of Bohemia
S. Arrowsmith (sa@bast.demon.co.uk), 1994&1995

Next extract
Home page