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Also by Diana Wilkinson

4 Riverside Close

A Perfect Circle

I formed a perfect circle using my thumb and forefinger, pushing the tips together and then let my other fingers spiral round the outside. I slotted my left eye neatly inside the rounded shape and closed my right. Although light oozed through the crack running down the hinged edge of the door frame, I wanted the familiar comfort of a circular aperture. Old habits die hard. I watched and waited.

The Target arrived on cue, their eyes immediately drawn towards the ragged shards of broken crockery strewn across the floor. A current of excitement coursed through my body as I stared, motionless, at my prey. Like a wolf in tune with nature, I recognised the smell of fear, as the rancid stench of body odours filled the room.

I gripped the baseball bat in my right hand and finally lowered my left hand away from my face, freeing the bulging eye from its confines. I emerged slowly from the shadows, smiling triumphantly as the Target turned towards me. There was an almighty crack as the bat smashed down onto his skull. After years of impotent silence, I was never going to be content with one hit. Death was not enough.

As I pummelled the head repeatedly, I knew only total decimation would suffice. No hint of worth would remain.

New Year 2005

Long lost first love lies buried

under thick layers of life…

A haunting presence

teasing with illusions

of how things might have been.

Like death’s finality

not quite believed.

1

Rebecca

Perhaps acceptance is all there is. Desire had lain dormant for what seemed a lifetime. As we shuffled along, excusing ourselves as we nudged and squeezed past the hotbed of sweaty bodies reclining in anticipation, a gentle wave of contentment took me by surprise.

Arthur managed to upturn a half-empty popcorn container which stuck out from under an empty seat; a stark reminder of his gaucheness. The heat, fuelled by the recumbent masses, was overwhelming. My scarf was knotted so tightly I could hardly breathe.

Arthur’s hand was clammy. He wasn’t hot or cold. He lacked definition. Arthur was just there; a rock, a foundation tethering my dormant passions to his steadfastness. He didn’t complain, of course, about the heat or our unfavourable vantage point behind an exceedingly tall couple. Arthur didn’t do complaining.