11th Hour - A short story

11th Hour

Maxwell Lace slouched back, reclining restlessly into his proud leather chair. Would the ceaseless rain ever stop? He sighed, kicking his feet up onto his desk and twisting body into something which resembled comfortable. In front of him, his laptop continued to blink and mutter back at him, offering little real use other than the light it was currently throwing into the night of the office.

Max’s heavy eyes began to glaze over as a seed of colour; perfect, dreamlike, began to grow in his mind. It was the same daydream he always had around now: endless countryside spilt in all directions, pots of tea and the smell of dirty earth running through his hands. Earnest simplicity.

“Coming inside?” she’d say to him, the girl with the soft blonde tresses, stroking his shoulder gently as he prized the last earthy spud.

“Just a minute,” he’d say, smiling towards her, before resting back onto the grass and arching into the sunlight, “Just a few more minutes.” Maxwell smiled to himself; he knew however many times he idolised this particular fantasy, he would never make it inside. He never did. He always seemed so content at this moment that he never dared to dream up the next part.

The metallic ticking of the office clock sliced cruelly into his daydream, causing Max to jerk upwards and kick an assortment of stationary off his desk. He cursed loudly to himself, kneeled down and slowly began to pick up the pens, clips and files from the worn-in red carpet. Was life always like this? How long had it been now, he thought. Ten, twelve years? He’d lost count. He knew he’d made several million in that time. Servant to his own success; holed in a 12th floor office, religiously shooting his laptop icy stares and having school-boy escapist fantasies. Pathetic, he considered.

Twinge tapping at his spine, Max stood and arched his back, over stretching until the comforting crack of several vertebrae caused him to shudder slightly. Momentarily relieved, he walked slowly towards one of the office’s numerous shutter windows and peered out into the darkness, hands resting on the sill. Rain pattered down relentlessly; beads of miserable wax seeming to mock every part of Max’s daydream.

His warm breath crystallised against the cold glass for a few fractured seconds, spelling out a wretched thought which he’d wanted desperately to keep inside. Somehow instinctively, Maxwell Lace knew what he had yet to do.

Deliberately and methodically, he unclasped the two shutter locks, heaving up the heavy glass window and simultaneously allowing a cold blast of miserable rain and air to jettison his face.

Unrepentant, he hauled his slight frame onto the sill, wobbled and smiled.

* * *

Zidana hurried past a blur of scattered faces, the smell of sickly incense desperately clinging to her nostrils. Beggars, sellers and tourists littered her path as she hastily clamoured her way through the souks, her daughter’s clammy body cradled firmly to her chest. A buzz of noise littered her ears, fading in and out of introspective silence and filtering out much of Yalda’s cries in the process.

However upsetting the cries were, they offered Zi a kind of twisted maternal comfort: she was still okay, albeit in pain, at least. If only she’d checked Yalda’s clothes before she’d hastily dressed her; if only she hadn’t been in such a hurry. If only, if only. The scorpion wasn’t looking for prey, but had simply found it; Yalda’s gandora happened to be the perfect hiding place for such a coincidence.

“Please - someone help me – she’s been stung,” Zi cried, stumbling into another tangle of Marrakesh souk, “Why aren’t you listening – my daughter’s been stung!”

The buzz of commotion abated only slightly; in turn eyes bowed downwards and breaths became hushed. A cold fire of anger and hatred burst through Zi’s veins as each of the market faces turned away, ambivalent dominos shamefully falling one by one. “I don’t know what to do – why won’t you help? she cried. Zidana stopped. “Why won’t you help me?”

For a split second, the entire market place seemed to stop in her mind. A silence, contemplative and uneasy, crept out from her ears and relentlessly waterfalled out, engulfing the passageways and people around her and soaking them in a spray of white noise. She stood absolutely still, Yalda clutched to her body; stereo heartbeats and short, shallow breaths.

It hadn’t always been this way. Only a few years ago Ilias had owned a thriving stall here in Marrakesh. They’d enjoyed a reasonable living and certainly would never have been caught short by a wayward scorpion. Still, she’d never have believed Ilias would have left the way he did either; gone without so much of a note. What had happened to him? Perhaps he’d finally tired of her awkward ways; charming lovers’ quirks turned sour into rancid resentment. Perhaps he’d really left her for another, as he so often suggested when they’d argued for hours on end. Perhaps he was dead.

Perhaps he was dead.

A solitary tear ran down Zidana’s face, soaking into the dusty ground as the souk suddenly ricocheted back into action before her eyes.

“Excuse me, dear,” a hushed voice swallowed, “Can I help?”

* * *

Jonas knelt awkwardly on the grass, his aging bulk seeming to rebel entirely against his wishes. His chequered shirt spilt out over the sides of his jeans, accentuating his paunch more than he would have liked. He yawned and looked up, immediately regretting it as the full force of the sun blasted him in the eyes.

Squinting repeatedly and trying to ignore the white haze now shrouding his vision, Jonas heaved himself onto his knees and stared at the patch of dry earth in front of him. Nearly there, he thought. Trowel in hand, he plunged it into the dirt, scattering dusty crumbs everywhere as he repeatedly dug and furrowed for the Last One.

“You bugger,” Jonas smiled a curse as he caught sight of the final potato, the khaki dome winking at him. He let out a sigh. Beads of sweat dripped off his head, running stream-like down his temples and at last moistening his greying beard. Wiping his arm and shirt across his face, he bent over, hands poised, ready to pull the last spud from its cocoon.

“Jonas, dear. Jonas?” Jonas hauled himself round to catch sight of Louisa, his wife of 40 years; white-blonde hair and always that loving, indomitable smile, edging towards him from the back of the house. “Jonas – you can’t still be at it, you silly old fool,” she grinned, a hint of frustration glinting in the back of her eyes. “Honestly, what happened to that big powerful man I married, eh?” She’d paused now, stood a just few feet over Jonas’s splayed position, hands on hips in a gentle but mocking fashion.

“Nearly there. The last one’s within sight!” Jonas beamed back, “Just give us another few minutes.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what you always say. The pot’s on anyhow – I expect you don’t want cold tea?” Louisa’s brow wrinkled slightly as she looked back at her husband.

“Honestly, I’ll be there in two minutes,” he assured. And with that, Louisa turned and slowly headed back towards the house, leaving Jonas alone amongst the earth and pollen once more.

She was right. He wasn’t in his prime anymore. Years of hard labour had chipped back any bulky bravado he once had; a rusty mind and a disobedient gait had worked their force for too long now. How had he allowed it to get to him? Jonas rifled his hand through the freshly-dug dirt, moist soil catching under his nails as he considered the notion.

At the back of his mind, buried under a dust of memories and random, ambling moments, a long-forgotten speck of a half-forgotten thought resurfaced. You never wanted this. Jonas jerked back in surprise at the truth. He considered it a minute. In truth, he’d always dreamed of the city life: of frenetics, glass tower blocks and coffee-surging digital highs. Money, power and everything in between. Acquisition. He’d been denied the chance. In his mind, he no-longer remembered how or why; all he knew was that he could have done it and should have taken it.

Instead, he’d settled for the quiet life: long walks and idle chats. Immensely comforting yet at the same time spectacularly, heartbreakingly dull. Pathetic, he considered. Jonas arched back, the caustic sun hitting him powerfully in the face as he shook the thought back to the depths of his mind once more. Why did he always want what he couldn’t have?

Anxiety, followed by a sorrowful rotting agony, thumped in Jonas’ chest. And again. The pain, first mistaken by Jonas as bitter self-pity, burnt like molten fire as it boiled its way from the centre of his chest and deep into his arms. The pain spread, thicker and heavier than before, seeming to pull his ribcage inwards and in on itself; cold, hard agony reverberating off every sickly cell in his body.

With a crash, Jonas collapsed backwards, his body thudding effortlessly into the swaying summer grass as the heart attack took full hold. Eyes bloodshot and glazed, Jonas forced every last breath from his lungs as he desperately clung onto life.

“Louisa!”

In the distance the newly-painted cottage, mottled cream and aloof, began to blur in Jonas’ vision. Saliva wept from his mouth as his ribcage smashed in on itself again, obliterating the previous pain into little tiny pieces.

“Louisa-!”

Out of the corner of one blurred and narrowing eye, Jonas thought he saw the proud reflection of a patio door sway open. He thought, too, that he caught sight of an elderly woman with white-blonde hair rush out of the pristine cream cottage and run in his direction. Although he couldn’t be sure.

*

Chris Parker sat hunched over his laptop, scrunched fist propping up his tired head. The dizzying artificial light was starting to make him feel ill, and he lent back in his chair with a huff. Bored again.

The more he sprang from one thing to another, desperately trying to fire up interest, the more his concentration seemed to wane even further. Chris was aware of the irony of the situation, but couldn’t even be bothered to consider it, so instead reached for the expectant glass on the side and gulped down another wash of Coke.

Cool, sugary bubbles glided down his gullet. He loved the way they’d somehow make their way back up to his nostrils in a few seconds and burst out sensation.

Chris peered back at the screen in front of him. Curious, he thought, how dotted pixels of primary colour could appear to have lives so much more fulfilling than his own. Hardly seemed fair. He rubbed his eyes feverously until the dull ache just under the ridges of his sockets began to wane.

Bleary-eyed, he scanned the plastic casing on the floor, thrown down in excitement just a few days ago, when the concept was new and offered him infinitely more promise.

“11th Hour,” he read, “Moments you master.” He considered the slogan a minute. Was he really a master? Their master? Usually, he simply let the events of the game play out, preferring to watch and re-watch the pre-programmed moments reach fruition; a cathartic ensemble of other’s lives dripping away. They weren’t real – what did it matter?

Scanning his eyes back on the computer screen, Chris drew his attention back into the game. On the top left, Maxwell Lace teetered almost uncontrollably on the window sill, a rush of wind and rain doing little to hide the raw tears and shame stinging down his face; on the right, Jonas lay in the wet grass, unsure if Louisa really had heard him or if it was all part of a senile mind he longed to be rid of. Below, in a wider screen, Zidana clutched her child to her body, shaking slightly and considering whether the offer of help was to be trusted, or would serve only to deepen her heartbreak further.

“11th Hour,” Chris mused with a smile to himself, gazing over the three moments unfolding in front of him and waiting for each to play out to perfection.

And then, for no particular reason he could think of, he did something quite different.

He put down his Coke, lent in, and clicked on one of the screens.

*

11th Hour, by Dan Thomas