Ghosts in the Morning - By Will Thurmann Page 0,4

thank you wall’ or ‘no wall, that’s fine, no thanks’ – but my mocking sarcasm usually went unheard. It made me feel better, though.

‘Bloody hell, can you believe the brass neck of these bloody Ministers. We’re in the middle of a bloody recession – and it is a recession, no matter what they call it – and they go swanning off a business trip to Singapore. Like that’s going to help. Bloody idiots.’

‘I’ve never been to Singapore. I remember reading once that you get fined for eating chewing gum there, is that right?’

‘Eh, what?’ Graham snapped, without looking up.

‘Oh, nothing.’

Graham tossed the paper onto the kitchen table and went into the hall to pick up his briefcase. ‘Bye then’, he called, then he was gone, the door slamming. The hinges needed looking at, I had told Graham, but that was months ago. I would do it myself, but he never let me touch his tools. He even pathetically had a combination lock on the tool cupboard in the garage. I wondered if he kept a stash of girlie magazines in there.

Years ago, Graham used to kiss me on the lips before he went to work. A proper smooch, lips moist and a hint of passion. Love, even. As time passed, this changed to a dry kiss on the cheek. Now, this too had changed. Now, it was a shouted goodbye, or sometimes nothing at all, just the slam of a door that needed fixing. Did all marriages get to this point eventually? Honeymoon love morphing into the sort of care felt for a sibling, then a gradual, inexorable fading away, leaving a mild tolerance that bordered on the fringes of outright dislike. Maybe we were too scared, too set in our ways, to change things, so we accepted the way of things, we accepted a life we would have dreaded when we were young and idealistic. If familiarity breeds contempt, were all marriages destined for that contempt?

A saucer dropped to the floor. An unforgiving floor - natural stone flooring, top quality, Graham had insisted on it, despite it costing twice as much as the tiles I had chosen - so the saucer smashed. I sat down and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was far too early for a glass of wine but still...

The man that I killed had been cycling. His bike had lights but they were small, ineffective, pinpricks in the curtain of the night. The lane was narrow, unlit, there were no street lights in the island’s smaller lanes. The man had all that silly cycling clothing on, but it must have been designed for the daytime as the clothes were black. Or perhaps a very dark grey, but there only a very faint white trim. I didn’t see all of that at first. I just felt a slight bump as my bumper clipped his back wheel. I braked hard and quick, but only after my bumper had clipped him. It didn’t take too long to stop, I hadn’t been travelling that fast. I didn’t like to speed, I thought of myself as a very careful driver, and besides, I was wary of being breathalysed. Not that I’d had that much to drink, but you never knew...

The bike had wobbled violently in front of me, then kissed the verge. It tumbled forward and I saw the man tumble forward with it, a blur, like a smudge on a photo. He flipped and somersaulted into the old stone wall at the side of the road. It was a low wall, a bit ramshackle, but attractive in a rustic way, full of age and character. There was a field behind the wall, a farm maybe, or maybe just countryside, a rambler’s paradise. The man was unlucky, the wall was low enough for him to have gone right over, landed in soft grass maybe, but he didn’t. Instead, he struck the wall. It looked awkward, nasty. I got out of the car.

The man’s leg was at a funny angle and his cycling helmet had flown off. It lay next to the wall where some of its stones had been dislodged, probably as a result of his fall. I could see the torn strap of the helmet. I looked down at the man. He wasn’t moving. I stared at his face and he stared back at me, with his eyes wide open and unblinking. A glassy stare, and for a moment it unnerved me. I remember shivering nervously, but