Standalone
A Ha’ Page Horror
Stan daren’t lift his gaze from the stretch of pavement directly before his feet. His new hips have made him a steadier walker, sturdier, but the rips in the tarmac still threaten to upend him. And what with the wet —
By rights, he shouldn’t be out here at all. Yes, if Sheila hears about this from one of the neighbours, there’ll be hell to pay. But he doesn’t feel right without a daily perambulation, even if it’s only to the co-op a hundred yards away, after the paper. He has to get some fresh air — cold as it is — if he’s to stand a hope of sleeping through the night. That’s why he waited all day for the rain to stop.
Still, he probably wouldn’t have attempted this without his new cane. Last time he went over, he had put his faith in the old, single-point one. He lay across the broken flagstones round the corner for over an hour. And that was in summertime.
On weekends, the close buzzes with parents and grandchildren, but it’s largely visitor-free on weekdays. The locals rarely venture out in the dark. So, if he goes over now, he might not be spotted before morning. And what with the cold —
‘Nice stick!’
Stan starts.
Who?
He looks up. Right. Left. Flinches.
Oh.
He’s relieved to discover the exclamation came from someone as old as himself. Older.
The lady from number 17 who Fran says never talks to anyone?
‘Yes,’ Stan says. ‘My daughter bought it for me.’
The look on her face —
Probably a fellow sufferer. Or was it mention of Sheila?
Fran says this old dear doesn’t have children. ‘None visit her, anyway. That’s why she stands on her porch whenever mine turn up, and gives them — me the evil eye.’
But she must have someone, mustn’t she? I’ll ask after them —
She grips her stick tighter.
Stick? It’s more like a staff. Or club. Gnarled, crooked — Something out of a fairy tale that someone casts a spell with. A wizard or —
Recalling Fran’s nickname for the old dear, Stan stops this trail of thought for fear he’ll blurt it out.
No, better not mention family, in case they don’t get along. That’s all too common these days. And seems to cause more heartache for those affected than those without any family at all.
But he has to say something. The silence between them has become oppressive.
He clears his throat, and raises his cane. ‘It’s called a HurryCane,’ he says. ‘As in Hurry up! Yes! They obviously didn’t have anyone like me in mind when they came up with that.’
She doesn’t laugh, snort — smile, even.
Stan swallows. Lowers his cane. ‘It comes apart,’ he says seriously. ‘Collapses, I mean. Which is handy when you’re out with the — ’
The knuckles around the staff bulge.
No, can’t say that either.
‘My daughter found it online.’
The eyes fixed on have yet to blink.
‘You know, the internet?’
Maybe she doesn’t know what that is.
He considers explaining. Decides against it.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘it was nice talking to you, but I better be getting along. Doesn’t do to stop still outside at this time of year.’
Perhaps she doesn’t understand the language? No, she spoke first, didn’t she? And in English. Probably her hearing, then. I’ll ask Fran about it.
He nods curtly. Turns aside. Continues, head bowed.
‘Family’ is what he was going to say earlier. A walking stick you can break down comes in handy when you’re out with the family. Prevents you from poking the grandchildren’s tooties. Or them taking your eye out when they have a go with it. But he couldn’t say that, of course, for fear she doesn’t have grandkids.
He pauses. Looks up, at the stretch that did for him last time: the run of pavement covered by wonky flagstones, with a high wall on the right that throws it into deep shadow come night or late afternoon at this time of year.
He should turn round.
No. Must get back on the horse.
He continues, slower than before, the cane closer to his body.
What’s that noise?
He stops.
Shushing?
He looks over his shoulder, as much as he can with his gammy neck.
The skateboarder again?
He turns back. Heads for the grass verge, away from the wall, towards the narrow band of light that skirts the houses.
Would a skateboarder be out at this time of day at this time of year?
Shush-shush!
What to do?
Shush-shush!
The cane! Sheila said it’s luminous or something, didn’t she?
He holds it up, out, to his side. Winces from the effort.
Shush-shush!
No, that’s not coming off wheels.
Shush-shush!
Sounds more like feet shuffling up the tarmac.
‘Hello?’ He starts around —
Something strikes him, the top of his hat. One quick rap.
Has the hail started up again?
He looks up.
The top of his skull burns. The fire whips down his spine. Hips. Legs.
He drops to his knees. Forward, onto the glistening flagstones.
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The old dear places her staff in the darkest corner of her porch. Lifts the cane. Looks it over. At the three rubber tips at the base that form a hoof. The indentations in the handle that accommodate fingers.
Satisfied, she grips the stem in both hands, and wrings it. Turns this way, that, quivering with exertion.
Defeated, she relaxes. Opens the low cupboard door. Slings the cane inside.
It lands on top of the others.
