I looked to the pavement, crouched down close. Dead ants seared into the concrete, a hundred times over. I’d washed it twice today, once with a bucket and water, second with sprays. Just seemed to make them gleam brighter.

“They say they only swarm and take flight for a single day.” I looked up from the stone, but didn’t pull myself up.

“The ants. One time in each year.” A hand came down and I took it, pulled myself up. He was dressed smart, smiling.

“My mother used to make me pour boiling water over the nests. Never liked doing that. Not so much at all.” He frowned, still shaking my hand, came back to me. He introduced himself, told me why he was here. There was a suitcase next to him, set down by the ants.

“Come in.” I said and both of us stepped inside my place, carefully sidestepping the blood flecks as we did.

“Spring cleaning, huh?” He sat in the chair, starting pulling out the brochures on the table before him. He nodded to the black bags gathered everywhere.

“No. Not really.” I said. I didn’t want to get into it, but I didn’t want to lie. I looked over to him, to let him know we were okay.

“Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, water?” I asked him, leaning out of the kitchen, dangling my own cup.

“Water, please. Thank you.” He said and nodded. He took the Bible out last and set it down.

“It’s the same colour as the ants.” I said, as I switched the kettle on. “The colour, I mean.”

“They use insects in colouring, dyes and things. Same way as they do plants, stems.” I could hear him drawing forward and craning in the chair, so I could hear him okay.

“Is that right?” I washed the glass, washed her fingerprint smudges clean off, poured some water into it. I made the coffee for myself, then walked back to the room.

“There you go.” I said, handing him the glass. He took it out of my hand at the top and bottom, like it was hot. That was when I saw it; each of his nails was picked to the quick and bleeding.

“Thank you.” He said, as I settled down in the chair opposite. He was late twenties, early thirties, same as me. Similar, without the smoke and drink; we could have been brothers or I could have been him, if I’d made the right decisions. “I want to talk to you about Jesus…” he began to say, like Jesus was a friend we both knew, or one of the bowling team. He began to talk and I listened.

“So what about wars and illnesses and kids dying?” I asked him after a while. As soon as I asked I really wanted to know; I wanted to see if he was going to tell me what he had been told to say or if he was going to talk to me.

“The society’s stand…” he began. He had one of those movie star voices that was part drawl, part friend, like he could sell insurance as well as Jesus; hell, maybe together in a combo. He finished what he had to say and then he took a sip from his water.

“But then…” he said quietly, almost by accident. He still held the glass up to his lip, half frozen. He started to frown, then set down his glass. Without thinking he started to pick the skin from his nails, before stopping himself sharply. He made his fingers into fists and padded them against each other. If I wasn’t there, I was sure he would have punched down, clean through the table. I was sure.

“I’m sorry.” Excuse me. Do you have a bathroom?” He looked up to me, tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it, like a salesman being told bad news just as he was stepping onto the podium.

“Sure, it’s through here.” I said pointing. I stood with him and without thinking I held my hand out and he took it to steady himself.

“Thank you.” He said his voice low now and his own; I patted his back and made space for him to walk away, then went to the kitchen to fish out some headache pills.

I walked back, looked at the bare walls, the bags. I looked down to the brochures on the table, how carefully they were laid out: spread. I looked back to the bathroom, the closed door, and began to gather them up, stacked them into a pile, until there was space on the table again, so it was empty like everything else. I managed to breathe again and I laid my palms down on the wood to cool my skin.

“Sorry about that.” My apologies.” He said, returning to his seat. He was trying to be bright and breezy, but there was still a sheen of sweat on his forehead, making a liar out of his smile.

“I have these. I don’t know if you’re allowed to take them.” He smiled and took them, knocked them back with the water. He put the glass down, suddenly noticing everything had been set to one side. Neither of us said anything. I couldn’t explain it myself if I’d tried.

“Are you running a fever?” I asked. He looked back up from the pile of papers and shook his head. He tried to smile again, but it was no good.

“No. I’m just a bit under the weather.” He patted the leaflets into a neater pile than I had done. Both his thumbs were bleeding and a fat drop smudged onto the corner of the pile, trickling down over all of them.

“Oh!” he said. It sounded light, almost dainty, I almost started to laugh. But then, it was what someone would say if they didn’t have any options.

“Here.” I said. I’d bought tissues in with me, thinking he was sick. He took a coupler and started to dab at the brochures, forgetting the blood coming out of himself. He worked that way in silence for a while, and then stopped suddenly, holding the brochures so tight, they began to curl and crease.

“I have a dog.” He started to say. His face was tilted down to the papers and I could see his eyes were closed, even though he was trying to shield them from me.

“A husky. It’s the most beautiful dog in the world.” His voice was quiet now and his own. He sounded like a teenager confessing to what he’d stolen.

“She’s so sick. She’s so sick and I don’t know what to do.” He said and he pinched his eyes quickly with his thumbs, and then brought them down quickly, both of them still bleeding. He tapped the brochures with his hands, fresh blood dripping onto the paper, but he didn’t seem to care now.

“She’s so sick and she’s dying.” He said, as much to himself as to me. He looked over to me, so quick he almost made me flinch. His eyes were red and blurred, but he wasn’t letting himself cry.

“I know it’s stupid, but she’s my best friend, you know?” He smiled and I smiled too. The way he said ‘you know’ made it seem like we were friends or something. I nodded. And suddenly in this empty house, it felt like we were the last two people left on earth.

“My girl’s left me.” I said, gesturing to the bags. “I left her clothes on my radiators like she was still around. Opened up the windows to get rid of the smell of her and then shut them tight when I smelled smoke coming through and taking her away. She was my best friend too.” I put my hand up to all the…mess and we both smiled again, though we were so far from feeling it, it should have cracked our jaws.

He looked down to the leaflets, the Bible, but he was looking straight through them. I looked over to the black bags, the junk that were once a life and now just something else to be thrown away. I looked to him, followed him looking out of the window to the street. Outside the roads were empty, everyone at work, in amongst their lives. Everything was empty and silent. Above the clouds drifted apart, the sun almost climbing through.

“Help us.” He said, looking out to the street, the sky. “Help us.” He said, until his voice gave way and he began to shudder where he sat. I reached over and I took his hand and he took mine. And the two of us looked out of the window as the sun nearly shone and we sat in the silence and we waited. It was all we could do.

***
Chris Castle wrote this. He wishes to include his e-mail address, for any comments or feedback: chriscastle76@hotmail.com.