Poet by Harry Fox

Author:Harry Fox
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Music, Murder, Psychology, Gigs, Sex, Humour, Pubs, Poetry, Violence
ISBN: 9781849899055
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2011
Published: 2011-12-13T00:00:00+00:00

Apart from numbers 8 and 9 I can say with certainly that number 10 definitely applies. Although I can blame my parents for number 1.

Idiot, no time for your warped sense of humour, not now people need you.

Actually need me.

And that’s the scariest bit of all; people really need me for God’s sake, so why am I laying here feeling sorry for myself thinking all this analytical drivel?

‘Because that’s what you do’ as Lydia would be keen to point out.

Would make the basis for a damn good song……………………………………

Idiot, not now.

Jesus, action is what’s needed, but what, what do I actually do, where do I start?

I hear Lydia’s footsteps coming up the narrow stairway and wonder if I dare ask her?

I hitch up my jeans and pull down my sweatshirt to cover my belly before she enters; vanity knows no boundaries, not even murder.

I think about sitting up to greet her but it seems too much effort.

She enters, smiles and puts a mug of coffee down beside me before lowering herself all the way down to sit beside me without spilling a drop of her own.

Very impressive.

But then Lydia is an impressive lady so I don’t dwell on it for long.

I notice that we are dressed almost ‘his and hers’ as I take in her tight blue stretch jeans and baggy sweatshirt a shade lighter blue than my own. Her shoulder length blonde hair looks and smells freshly washed and her blue eyes are bright, despite the fact that I know that she hasn’t had much sleep either, a stark contrast to the washed out muddy brown orbs that I know must inhabit my own features.

She rests her hand on my arm, smiles and looks down at me shaking her head slightly.

‘How the hell did a wuss like you get involved in something like this?

I gaze up at those beautiful eyes, helpless as usual and totally bereft of ideas for a suitable response.

She places her coffee down and gently lays her body down on me pulling my arms around her, looping her own arms up around my shoulders.

The smell of the shampoo is now overwhelming, filling my senses as her hair drapes itself across my lower face tickling my chin; but I don’t dare move.

As I hold her tightly the snapshots suddenly appear as a rapid gallery, this time in perfect sequence. And as my body stiffens with shock at this brutal assault I can hear her humming a soft tune as she holds me even tighter.

I feel salt in my mouth as the tears erupt and my arms are limp on her body, all the strength drained from me at the horror of the visceral images.

But it passes swiftly and I drop into a fitful parody of the half-sleep that usually refreshes, Lydia’s breathing, half the speed of my own, soft against my chest.

I have no idea how long we lay like this but I am suddenly aware that our breathing is now synchronised and softly stroke her back to see if she is asleep.

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