THE CONFLICT
By
M. W. Leeming
M. W. Leeming
The alarm goes off at 6 a.m. and I groan as I rise. Beside me, Kelly mumbles something in her half-sleep. I kill the shriek of the alarm and climb out of bed.
Our thin curtains are barely able to hold the bright morning out. I peep through a gap and see the street below. I put the bins out last night. It looks as though a cat or a fox has been at them. One of the rubbish bags is split open, its insides teased out on to the pavement and scattered. Whatever creature it was that had sniffed out something interesting had carefully dissected the various bits of crap obviously in the hopes of turning up a tasty morsel or two.
Fucking animals, I think. What will the neighbours say when they wake up and see the result of my negligent bin duties?
But still… it looks like a nice day.
A shit life is a shit life, mate, no matter what the weather looks like.
Shut up, I think.
I go downstairs and flick the kettle on. Grab a cup, drop a spoon of coffee in.
Can’t you even wake up without relying on drugs? Useless.
Shut up.
As I wait for the kettle, I slide a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and get it going. Open the cupboard to retrieve the strawberry jam. I finish preparing my breakfast –
(You call THAT breakfast? What about something healthy like fruit or muesli?)
– and carry it through to the lounge, where I put the telly on so I can catch the morning headlines before setting off for work.
As usual, everything’s dominated by Brexit and Trump. Politicians spinning their bare-faced lies to anyone who’ll listen.
Politics is glorified bullshit, mate. It’s the art of persuading people into letting themselves to be exploited by the rich and powerful. You’re gonna die poor and alone and no one will care.
I wince. Pick up the remote and turn the telly off. I’ve got to iron my shirt, anyway.
*
As the iron hisses and gurgles, I carefully guide it over the fabric of my shirt in the routine I have.
Don’t know why you bother. You might crash your car on the motorway this morning and who’d see your nicely ironed shirt then?
Please, I think. Not today. Just shut up.
It’s true though, mate. You could die screaming as your car is crushed in a multi-car pile-up and all this time you spent ironing your shirt would count for fuck all.
*
I creep into the bedroom and gently place a kiss on Kelly’s forehead. She’ll be up in another half hour or so to take the kids into school –
(You’re a useless father… you don’t spend enough time with them.)
– so I try not to disturb her.
Then it’s down the stairs, grab the car keys from the little hook in the hallway and out the front door.
*
Look at this shit-heap you call a car… Absolute joke. Everyone thinks you’re a loser.
Climb into the car. Seatbelt, ignition, pull off the drive. Wave hello to Mrs Ronson, as she opens her car door and gives a big smile back in return.
No chance, mate. She wouldn’t touch a loser like you with a barge pole.
Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it, because I’m happily married.
Yeah, right. I saw you checking her out. Pathetic, mate.
Shut up.
Head for the motorway where I join the increasing flow of morning commuters. Take it steady. Speed cameras along this bit.
The police probably have your picture pinned to their dashboards. They’d do anything to nab a freak like you. Perving over Mrs Ronson like that. Sexual deviant, you are. She probably saw you, in fact, and got back out of her car to grass you up to Kelly. They’re probably sat slagging you off right now, over a nice cup of coffee in your lounge. Laughing at you. Laughing at how pathetic you are.
Big lorry ahead. I check my mirrors and indicate my intention to move into the middle lane. A people carrier cruises past and I glance into the car through the passenger window. A woman has her bare feet propped up on the dashboard in front of her.
Fuck…and now you’re eyeing her up! Jesus Christ mate, you need to learn some self-control. What if the driver saw you? He’d chase you down. Beat the shit out of you.
I let the people carrier sail by, then pull out. Foot down on the accelerator. Speed past the lorry, who flashes his headlights behind you.
I think you pissed him off.
Move back into the slow lane. Nice steady pace again. But my eyes keep flicking up to the rear view mirror, just to make sure the lorry driver hasn’t got it in for me.
*
I sit at my desk, staring at my PC. I can’t get my head straight. Can’t get into the mind-set. There’s a ton of work to be done, but I don’t know where to start. Phones warble all around, and it won’t be long before mine goes off. I know it.
You’re gonna get the sack if you carry on like this.
I know.
Your boss must know by now what a useless prick you are.
I know.
Why don’t you just jack it all in? Get your shit together, and walk out of here now.
I can’t.
Why? You hate the job. You hate your colleagues.
I need the money.
Why don’t you kill yourself, then? You might as well. It’s not as though you really believe there’s anything to live for. Everybody hates you. Even YOU hate you. You never see your kids. You’re clearly not in love with Kelly if you’re eyeing up other women. If that fat fucker Trump doesn’t drag the world into another war, all you’ve got to look forward to is a life of shit and pain and misery.
Shut up.
*
At lunch, I nip across the road to Tescos. I browse the chiller cabinet for sandwiches and a drink. A young mother sidles up alongside me, a toddler in the seat of her trolley. I smile at her and move aside to let her get closer.
Perv! You’re at it again!
“Boo-berries,” says the kid. I look at the youngster and smile.
She’s gonna think you’re a fucking paedophile mate. And you’re on CCTV, for Christ’s sake!
A little boy in denim shorts, a striped T-shirt and a floppy hat. He’s pointing at a row of plastic containers, each holding a portion of pre-sliced fruit. “Boo-berries, Mummy.”
The young mother looks at me, smiling, and rolls her eyes. I smile back, and although I’m now feeling self-conscious –
paedophile!
PAEDOPHILE!
– I can’t fight the compulsion to make small talk, believing that it will make me look normal.
“I take it he likes blueberries,” I say.
What the fuck has it got to do with you what he likes? Now she thinks you’re a paedophile who’s gonna stalk her and cut her throat and …
The woman laughs awkwardly, and says, “Yeah.”
*
Kelly’s home when I get back. The kids have eaten and they’re sat doing their homework.
“Hi, love,” I say, plonking myself down in a seat at the kitchen table. I feel exhausted.
“How was your day?” she says.
I shrug. “Same old, same old.”
“I was thinking… if the weather holds up, we could take the kids and go for a picnic at the beach. What do you think?”
You hate the beach. You hate the sand. You hate the sea. You hate…
…the fucking
…beach.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, smiling.
If you haven’t killed yourself by then.
“Listen… I’ve been thinking about making a doctor’s appointment,” I say.
Pussy. He’s just gonna laugh at you.
Kelly looks at me, concern suddenly etched upon her face.
Looks like she’s faking it to me.
“Oh yeah? Everything alright?”
“I don’t know. Not been feeling myself, just lately. It’s probably nothing…”
*
In bed, I read for a while before I start to feel tired. I’m barely concentrating on the text anyway. I have a long list of things to get through tomorrow and I could do with just getting an early night. For a few hours, that incessant nagging will be silenced as I tumble through unconsciousness.
But I’ll have it all to look forward to again tomorrow.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
Our thin curtains are barely able to hold the bright morning out. I peep through a gap and see the street below. I put the bins out last night. It looks as though a cat or a fox has been at them. One of the rubbish bags is split open, its insides teased out on to the pavement and scattered. Whatever creature it was that had sniffed out something interesting had carefully dissected the various bits of crap obviously in the hopes of turning up a tasty morsel or two.
Fucking animals, I think. What will the neighbours say when they wake up and see the result of my negligent bin duties?
But still… it looks like a nice day.
A shit life is a shit life, mate, no matter what the weather looks like.
Shut up, I think.
I go downstairs and flick the kettle on. Grab a cup, drop a spoon of coffee in.
Can’t you even wake up without relying on drugs? Useless.
Shut up.
As I wait for the kettle, I slide a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and get it going. Open the cupboard to retrieve the strawberry jam. I finish preparing my breakfast –
(You call THAT breakfast? What about something healthy like fruit or muesli?)
– and carry it through to the lounge, where I put the telly on so I can catch the morning headlines before setting off for work.
As usual, everything’s dominated by Brexit and Trump. Politicians spinning their bare-faced lies to anyone who’ll listen.
Politics is glorified bullshit, mate. It’s the art of persuading people into letting themselves to be exploited by the rich and powerful. You’re gonna die poor and alone and no one will care.
I wince. Pick up the remote and turn the telly off. I’ve got to iron my shirt, anyway.
*
As the iron hisses and gurgles, I carefully guide it over the fabric of my shirt in the routine I have.
Don’t know why you bother. You might crash your car on the motorway this morning and who’d see your nicely ironed shirt then?
Please, I think. Not today. Just shut up.
It’s true though, mate. You could die screaming as your car is crushed in a multi-car pile-up and all this time you spent ironing your shirt would count for fuck all.
*
I creep into the bedroom and gently place a kiss on Kelly’s forehead. She’ll be up in another half hour or so to take the kids into school –
(You’re a useless father… you don’t spend enough time with them.)
– so I try not to disturb her.
Then it’s down the stairs, grab the car keys from the little hook in the hallway and out the front door.
*
Look at this shit-heap you call a car… Absolute joke. Everyone thinks you’re a loser.
Climb into the car. Seatbelt, ignition, pull off the drive. Wave hello to Mrs Ronson, as she opens her car door and gives a big smile back in return.
No chance, mate. She wouldn’t touch a loser like you with a barge pole.
Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it, because I’m happily married.
Yeah, right. I saw you checking her out. Pathetic, mate.
Shut up.
Head for the motorway where I join the increasing flow of morning commuters. Take it steady. Speed cameras along this bit.
The police probably have your picture pinned to their dashboards. They’d do anything to nab a freak like you. Perving over Mrs Ronson like that. Sexual deviant, you are. She probably saw you, in fact, and got back out of her car to grass you up to Kelly. They’re probably sat slagging you off right now, over a nice cup of coffee in your lounge. Laughing at you. Laughing at how pathetic you are.
Big lorry ahead. I check my mirrors and indicate my intention to move into the middle lane. A people carrier cruises past and I glance into the car through the passenger window. A woman has her bare feet propped up on the dashboard in front of her.
Fuck…and now you’re eyeing her up! Jesus Christ mate, you need to learn some self-control. What if the driver saw you? He’d chase you down. Beat the shit out of you.
I let the people carrier sail by, then pull out. Foot down on the accelerator. Speed past the lorry, who flashes his headlights behind you.
I think you pissed him off.
Move back into the slow lane. Nice steady pace again. But my eyes keep flicking up to the rear view mirror, just to make sure the lorry driver hasn’t got it in for me.
*
I sit at my desk, staring at my PC. I can’t get my head straight. Can’t get into the mind-set. There’s a ton of work to be done, but I don’t know where to start. Phones warble all around, and it won’t be long before mine goes off. I know it.
You’re gonna get the sack if you carry on like this.
I know.
Your boss must know by now what a useless prick you are.
I know.
Why don’t you just jack it all in? Get your shit together, and walk out of here now.
I can’t.
Why? You hate the job. You hate your colleagues.
I need the money.
Why don’t you kill yourself, then? You might as well. It’s not as though you really believe there’s anything to live for. Everybody hates you. Even YOU hate you. You never see your kids. You’re clearly not in love with Kelly if you’re eyeing up other women. If that fat fucker Trump doesn’t drag the world into another war, all you’ve got to look forward to is a life of shit and pain and misery.
Shut up.
*
At lunch, I nip across the road to Tescos. I browse the chiller cabinet for sandwiches and a drink. A young mother sidles up alongside me, a toddler in the seat of her trolley. I smile at her and move aside to let her get closer.
Perv! You’re at it again!
“Boo-berries,” says the kid. I look at the youngster and smile.
She’s gonna think you’re a fucking paedophile mate. And you’re on CCTV, for Christ’s sake!
A little boy in denim shorts, a striped T-shirt and a floppy hat. He’s pointing at a row of plastic containers, each holding a portion of pre-sliced fruit. “Boo-berries, Mummy.”
The young mother looks at me, smiling, and rolls her eyes. I smile back, and although I’m now feeling self-conscious –
paedophile!
PAEDOPHILE!
– I can’t fight the compulsion to make small talk, believing that it will make me look normal.
“I take it he likes blueberries,” I say.
What the fuck has it got to do with you what he likes? Now she thinks you’re a paedophile who’s gonna stalk her and cut her throat and …
The woman laughs awkwardly, and says, “Yeah.”
*
Kelly’s home when I get back. The kids have eaten and they’re sat doing their homework.
“Hi, love,” I say, plonking myself down in a seat at the kitchen table. I feel exhausted.
“How was your day?” she says.
I shrug. “Same old, same old.”
“I was thinking… if the weather holds up, we could take the kids and go for a picnic at the beach. What do you think?”
You hate the beach. You hate the sand. You hate the sea. You hate…
…the fucking
…beach.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, smiling.
If you haven’t killed yourself by then.
“Listen… I’ve been thinking about making a doctor’s appointment,” I say.
Pussy. He’s just gonna laugh at you.
Kelly looks at me, concern suddenly etched upon her face.
Looks like she’s faking it to me.
“Oh yeah? Everything alright?”
“I don’t know. Not been feeling myself, just lately. It’s probably nothing…”
*
In bed, I read for a while before I start to feel tired. I’m barely concentrating on the text anyway. I have a long list of things to get through tomorrow and I could do with just getting an early night. For a few hours, that incessant nagging will be silenced as I tumble through unconsciousness.
But I’ll have it all to look forward to again tomorrow.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
