(August 2019)

Four Items

For what might have been minutes or hours, Herman sat slumped over the kitchen table. Four items.

Mobile.

Wallet.

Key ring.

Watch.

The phone started buzzing again, hovering a few millimetres sideways like a bug trying to escape, and another message flashed across the screen.

‘R U OK?’

How was he to answer that? What were the words exactly for what happened? What order should they go into? In what language would this make sense? You know when we set off earlier? Funny story…

Two Harleys. Two leather jackets, extra padding for safety on the elbows, spine and shoulder. Kevlar gloves, gauntlets, with carbon fibre knuckle protection, fortified palms. Tough, strong motorcycle boots, reinforced with plastic caps. Full-face helmets with flip-up fronts, brightly coloured, fibre glass shell. ECE certification 22-05.

And a craving for the chippy just a ten-minute ride up the road. Best batter anywhere.

A sneaky little fish supper. Too much grease, too much salt. Nowadays probably full of plastic, too.

‘That shit will kill you someday’, his sister had proclaimed before they set off. Two middle aged men, hairy bikers, grinning like a pair of school boys bunking off maths. Bright sunshine. Not a given in these parts.

Words carried weight. Pal. Bestie. Mate. Dickhead. Brother in law. Fredrik. Freddy. ‘The corpse will be moved to the mortuary at St Stephen’s’, stated the cop, and Herman had a vision of himself punching the man square in the face.

The insect tried to escape again. Buzzing, buzzing. He was going to have to catch it. Eventually.

***