Bath Time(Simon Daniels) As the soap suds popped around Steven's ears, he shivered, raising a frothy arm out of the water. The air temperature was definitely dropping. Opening one eye, he perused a pale limb, noting the white goose flesh and wrinkly hand. Foam tassels dripped into the liquid below. His skin felt like cold porcelain, so he quickly re-immersed it, comforted by the warmth of the water. An hour had tried on five minutes for size, and liked the fit.

Winding the sharp links of plug-chain round his big toe, it tightened, and he yanked it free with a soft “BL-UPPING'' sound. Fatigue pressed down like an unseen hand, forcing him down into the bath shaped mould. He was too tired to suction his heel to the plug hole and play ‘musical purling's’; apathy occupied the space left by the receding water. It gurgled and gulped, carrying with it sloughed off layers of sealed-in memories. How odd his body felt. How numb and heavy. Elbows, hips, ankles, all nudged the hard enamelled surface, as he sank. Should he open his eyes and stop the descent, or see where it took him; what thoughts it displaced?

A sheet of cold air fell on the emerging islands of flesh. Knees first, then toes, followed by chest, thighs, until three land-locked puddles of scummy water remained; down both sides and between his hairy legs. An icy tongue licked moisture from a pensile frame. Suspended animation or flotation tanks probably treated you to the same unity of sensation, he thought.

Trying to gauge the location of any body part was impossible; something had melted all his flesh, blood and bones away, leaving only his mind, naked and shivering. A monochrome picture dimmed, flickered and brightened. Garbled sounds thickened, becoming coherent voices. Then, a scar was slowly peeled away.

A kitchen; large, modern and well equipped. No doubts about middle class occupation here, with the fridge door wide open, harbouring expensive wines, chilling well ahead of schedule. Top shelf; salmon mousse cling-filmed into separate ramekins; precision stacked, three deep, rim on rim, on rim. Middle shelf; game pie, still warm, hindering the group above. Bottom shelf, Crème` Brulee`, with primed Demerara fuses. Door slammed shut in frustration. Nowhere to hook a cleanish finger or tear a strip from an old carcass without being traced. Mars bars', Twixes', biscuits'. Icy refugees, relocated in some sticking bottom drawer, glimpsed in a three inch chink, alongside last years Christmas cards and blue spiral drinking straws. A line of teasing bar-codes and taunting sell by dates, out of reach to all but pianist’s fingers. Silence, save for the laboured hum of a fridge making up for lost time. Owner/employers out golfing at some tedious eighteen-holer, for some deserving charity and the consolation of a gallon of Bells. House empty, if you discounted Suzy the old sausage dog; belly-worn and smelly with tiny Yves-St-Lauren briefs to cover her ‘delicate’ condition.

In the middle of the floor, (having assembled and avoided the scissor-snip legs of the ironing board) stood a young man, dialing the hi-tech iron to Linen. Twenty four napkins hot from the drier, stood bunched and crinkled like poppadum’s on the draining board, awaiting attention.

No problem with ironing. A Therapeutic pastime, pressing creases, ironing out anxieties and worries. Pride in one's appearance, left over from daily inspections in the Army. Starts with one, too easy. Two, then three. Four's much too thick. Sticks with a wad of three, lining up the tartan checks until a leaning tower crowds the scene.

Suddenly, a trilling phone causes the man to overrun, and iron his thumb. The tap runs fast and cold; one hand picks the receiver up while the other gets a soaking. Can't quite make out the caller above the din of gushing water.
"Hang on a sec." Twisting the tap to a trickle, thumb still smarting. "Hello. Are you still there?" Silence. "Hello. Is there anyone there?"
"Ste-ven, is that you?" whispers a voice.
"Dad? Dad, what's wrong?" Pain in thumb vanishes. Transfers both hands to receiver.
"Ste-ven". Spoken in a gravely, hoarse voice. Someone crying in the background. He already knows that in between those syllables a life has gone.
"Steven it's Rachel!” A monotone sentence, words glued together with necessity.
"She's been killed." More glued words. Background voice recognised as mother bawls down the phone, screaming Steven's name over and over, followed by a stream of sobbing "No's". Then father again.
"In a car accident."
No reply.
"N-n-no!", stammers Steven.
"Come home son, come home". Words becoming far off now. Cli-ck. Dialing tone.

He places the receiver gently back on the hook, like a wrong number. Steam iron still on. Smell of scorched linen. Face, cancer yellow. Distance from home, three hundred miles, might as well be three thousand. Nausea, mixed with coldness; a numbing coldness from the inside out, giving his heart a strange crushed and brittle feeling. A vacant stare out the window into the bright eyes of summer. Emotions welling up inside. Must get out and run away. Must run fast now, to beat the tidal wave. Legs buckling, knees hitting the cool floor tiles. Kneeling now, then curled up, tight as a young fern.

"Steven! We're back." Steven is impervious to the cheerful greeting. Tears slide off his oily cheeks, irrigating the dry cement between a cracked floor tile.

Young pig-tailed girl skips into the scene, to check on Suzy and pillage from the fridge. Steven lies unnoticed, whimpering like a run-over-dog. Girl wrestles with the squeaking, sticking drawer, slender fingers scrabbling for a Mars bar. Parental footsteps advancing closer. Rips off the wrapper and wolfs it down in two bites. Mouth full, she swivels and sees him curled up.
"Bub! Bub!" she screams, disgorging the caramel ball onto the floor.
"Mum!"
Mum and Dad arrive, in matching yellow Pringles, carrying their putters like hip-slung rifles.
"Look! There! Says the girl, pointing. I think it’s Steven. What's wrong with him mummy? Is he dead?"

Mother scoops up her daughter, while father, slots in the St Johns Ambulance tape from last years office refresher course.
"Breathing, bleeding, bones. Or is it bleeding, breathing, bones? Hand to mouth puzzlement. Wife shoos daughter into lounge and steps in.
"Steven, are you hurt at all? Can you hear me?'' She says, nervously, crouching down.
"Steven, can you hear me?'' Said in a louder, teacher’s voice. No touching.
Husband in backseat, remembers right order.
"Breathing, bleeding, bones, that's it! Sarah! Feel for a pulse. No, not there, in the carotid, I mean in the neck.''
Daughter, bisecting the kitchen door with a thumb-sucked face. Mother orders her to run across the road and fetch Dr Jenkins.
Husband paces, dishing out advice like a proper know it all.
“Breathing Ok? Good. No sign of injuries. Good, put him in the recovery position.” Wife shoots him a look usually reserved for interfering parents at a P.T.A. meeting.
"Show me!" she says, with supplicating gesture.

Then, suddenly, the fern unwinds, jerking up straight. Onion-stung eyes. Face, swollen like a dead fish. Hands washing the air. Then faints again, onto the wife’s generous thighs.

Sometime later, laid out on the sofa, he comes to. The realisation of the terrible news making him shake and mutter deliriously.

''A brandy. Fetch the poor boy a brandy. He's had a terrible shock,'' says Sarah, shooing her husband away, whilst cradling a damp face in her gloved left hand. Steven can smell cut wet grass and new leather. David retires to the dining room and rootles in the drinks cabinet for a bottle of cheap cooking brandy.

The phone rings again. It keeps ringing. Steven's body convulses, as he cracks his foot on the bath tap. The mobile keeps ringing. He sits up, shivering, and glances at his wristwatch, before grabbing the phone, and presses the talk button.
''Hello'', he says, sleepily.
''Steven! You haven't forgotten what tomorrow is, have you son?''
''Tomorrow, what do you mean, tomorrow?''
''It's been six years Steven. Had you forgotten?''

---