Mauldeth Road by Ben

Mauldeth Road  

By

Ben

Time passed slowly in the house, as it always did. Dust particles hung in the air and the oocasional buzzing fruit fly perforated the silence. There was a mark on the ceiling, void black, partly covered by the light fitting. Although it had been months, it was still damp to the touch. The same black damp that was spreading through every room. The place was a leper - a rotting husk of brick and timber, oozing from its wounds as it stank in the sun.  

The back door never opened properly – it took a decent shove just to knock it ajar. Outside, paving slabs floated on a gravel sea, weeds threatened to capsize them. In the corner under the kitchen window, a bin bag dissolved along with whatever was inside it. 

Jack sat alone on a splintered picnic table. It grimaced under his weight as he blew streams of smoke into the stagnant air. He had lived in the house for months now and had begun to rot alongside it. Patches of facial hair spread over his cheeks. His teeth were stained the colour of floorboards.  

He dropped his cigarette butt into a mug by the door, dousing the lit end in week-old coffee. He drifted inside, through the living room - a ghost of a memory, of lights dancing across pale walls and laughter shared.

Today he was alone. The big sofa had been left indented, vacant. Light crept in between the front door and doorframe. Jack flung it open and Mauldeth Road came up to meet him, forcing him to squint as naked sunlight filtered over the roofs of the houses that marred his view of sky. The ramshackle road stretched away – left to the train station; right to the shops. A Turkish barbers glared from the opposite side of the street, empty as always.

His stomach groaned. He was a starving fox, scurrying along the pavement in search of scraps – a pigeon bobbing its beak down to the gravel. The smell of the chippy rose to meet him, a siren’s call of salt and vinegar, of chips stuck to paper and fried mystery meat. Jack turned his head away, laser focused.    

He entered the coop and made a beeline for the meal deals, taking time to peruse the pre-made menu of beige and brown. If this was all he was eating today, the best he could do was pick something he could at least pretend to enjoy.  

He fished a cheese and onion sandwich out from the refrigerated crowd. The texture of the cheese spread reminded him of school, of packed lunches made by his Dad, of a time where nothing really mattered. In the years since, he had come to believe that those days were the last time he was truly happy. Life had, for the most part, been unkind to him, and more often than not, he thought he’d be glad when it was all over.

Shaking his head, he grabbed an energy drink and bag of crisps before heading over to the till.  

The assistant, Anthony, had white hair that sprung from his scalp and contorted around his shoulders, fixing his wrinkled neck in place. There seemed to be a layer of dust on him, built up from years of servitude and non-movement. Jack had never been able to squeeze an ounce of warmness from the man. He approached regardless, placing his meagre offering on to the Co-op altar.  

“Alright mate”.  

“You want a bag?”. Anthony was robotic as ever. Programmed to do his job and nothing else. Jack wondered if they unplugged him at the end of the night.  

“I’m okay thanks. Bright out there innit?”. He gestured towards the automatic doors.  

“They’re ten pence”.  

Jack stifled a smile.  “I’m okay thanks mate”.

Mate. He was offering an olive branch.  

Anthony grunted, a brief malfunction. He scanned the meal deal and put it back down on the counter. “Anything else?”.  

Jack asked for twenty B and H blue, king-size. They would have to last him the week, until the money from Dad came through. As always, Anthony asked him for his ID. Jack fished around his pockets for his wallet and thumbed out his driving license. He passed it over.  

The motorized shop assistant studied the pink plastic with intrigue, as he always did. He was desperate for it to be a fake, to catch him out.  

“You look younger on this”.  

It was true. When Anthony passed the license back to him, he looked down and stared into the grainy eyes of a seventeen-year-old boy. If only he could warn him about what was coming his way.  

He handed over his last twenty quid and winced at the lack of change. He decided to take the long route back so that he could enjoy his lunch al fresco.  The car park was flooded again, so he crossed over Rink Street and headed up towards the local pub, chunks of cheese spread filling his maw and clogging around his gums.  

Ladybarn Social stood on the corner like a terracotta sentry. A proper pub, filled with lukewarm pork scratchings and labourers, old pissheads and the odd smattering of students. It was just enough, at least for Jack. He thought about popping in for a solitary pint, one of the few comforts he had left. But one pint would turn into four, and Sue would be quick to remind him that he hadn’t paid his tab from last time. 

He gave it a nod of respect as he plodded past, snaking instead around Bowers Street and out down St George’s, until the house slid back into view. He found the door hanging open and shut it behind him as he stepped back over the threshold. The sofa coughed out dry skin and dust as he plonked his arse down into the indent. For a moment, he sat very still, listening for a sound he thought he'd heard in another room. Nothing, he realised.

He resumed his rotting.