Short Story:
COMING UP ROSES
by Damien Seaman
Five p.m. Best time of the day. Light dances through the bars, pools on the floor. I sit in it and let it make swirling patterns behind my closed eyelids. And I think of the time I’ll be away from this place. When I’ll be free. I can dance in the sunshine all day then. Let the sun caress me and make me whole. I can sit on the grass, wrap it between my toes. Haven’t seen the grass in more than ten years. Started to wonder if I ever would again. But I’ve got a good feeling right now. Reckon it won’t be long before I’m out. Ten years is a long time, manslaughter bumped up to murder thanks to the connivance of lawyers, like there’s nothing on this earth a lawyer’s touch can’t bugger up. Not where I’m concerned anyhow. Still, play my cards right at the parole hearing next week and it’ll all come up roses.
I tell myself this every day at five, except when the clouds come out. No sign of any clouds today. Today it’s all sun, sun, sun, the rolling hills and melting ice cream of my youth.
Screws are laughing at me. Let them. I've been a model inmate for them, and I know they know it. They tell me they’ll give me this cell back if I ever get sent down again and end up back here. And it’s nice of them, really. Specially for such a bunch of bastards. I can see the good in everyone, me.
The greasy spoon invites me in with the smell of frying bacon. It’s too early for the lunch rush, I guess, and a few tables are empty. There’s a menu behind the counter, got up to look like chalk on a gigantic blackboard. All day breakfast. Roast dinner. Salt beef sandwiches. Jesus – too much bloody choice. How do people live with it, day in, day out? I’ve no idea what I want. A coffee will have to do for the minute.
Now, do I sit and wait for service or go up and order at the till? A waitress lowers a couple of plates of egg and chips in front of some guys at one of the tables. They share some banter, a little flirting. The confidence of regulars. I got a lot to learn about how life is on the outside. Still, can’t go wrong paying at the till. I go up and ask for coffee. Black, no sugar. Used to be you had to specify black else you’d get it with milk every time. Do people still do that? I’m guessing they do. Life can’t change that much.
I take my coffee to an empty table by the door and leave it to cool while my brain meanders. Sunlight shines through the window, throws 
shadows on the floor. Makes me think of cool green grass and young women in thin summer dresses. School discos, “Lady in Red” on the sound system, the hard-on shuffle and trying to get Claire Simmons to let me touch her tits at the end of the night. Used to look great in her summer dresses, did Claire.
“Mate?”
The nasal whine of the stressed Londoner cuts through. I reach for my coffee cup. The coffee is cold.
I focus on the guy with the voice. He looks Greek, or Mediterranean anyway. He rolls his eyes.
“I said you’ll have to leave, mate. It’s the middle of the lunch hour. If you’re not gonna order food I need this table for my other customers, you know what I mean?”
I forgot all about that. On the outside, people call you “mate” when they mean “dickhead”, or at least when they want money.
I pass a hand over the stubble on my head. The guy takes the movement as a threat, backs off half a step. I’m looking round and I don’t see anyone with him. No one looking like they need a table.
“Can you give me a minute? I need to decide what I want.”
“Come on mate,” he says. Again with the “mate”. Fuck, it’s annoying. “You’ve been here over an hour and I’m gonna need the table.”
“If you give me five minutes then I’ll order something and you’ll get my money.” There’s a hint of defensiveness in my voice, and I hate myself for it.
“Sorry mate,” he says.
I sigh. “Stop calling me mate.”
“What?”
I get to my feet, sweep my cup onto the floor, cold coffee and all. “I said, don’t call me mate. If you’ve got a problem with me just come out and fucking say it.”
There’s a bit of silence. It can’t last. The eyes of the regulars have me pegged as a bad guy. As if that wasn’t enough, one of the waitresses weighs in from behind the counter with an “everything okay there, Steve?” to the guy. The threat is there in her voice, the “do-you-want-me-to-call-the-police” tone of those who are always in the right. But I see she doesn’t need to call anyone. Some of the regulars look like they’re about to step in and help throw me out, all because I don’t know what I want to eat.
“All right,” I say, and hold up my hands. Steve flinches and I have to stop myself laughing aloud. “You want to do yourself out of a lunch, that’s fine by me.”
I pick up my stuff and leave. Just knowing someone is going to call me something nasty soon as I’ve left the place and I’m out of earshot.
Welcome home.
It rained in the night, and though the sun’s been out most of the day the grass is cool even now at five p.m. I’ve got myself a ham and cheese sarnie and a packet of crisps. Not the best picnic in the world, but it’ll do. I smooth my jeans and sit on the grass, take a bite of the sandwich.
What is it with mayonnaise in everything? I swear sarnies didn’t used to be this way before I went inside. But really, who wants mayo with ham and cheese? What about a little mustard or pickle or something with a bit of bite?
I take off my shoes, run my toes through the grass. The chill feels good, makes me shiver.
There’s a tickle at the back of my throat and I sneeze. Sneeze again. A third time. Snot shoots out of my nose and into my hand. Jesus, what is this? Another sneeze, more snot. My eyes start to weep. What the hell is going on? I never used to get hay fever when I was a kid. Or am I allergic to mayonnaise?
By the time I get back to my rented room, my toes have swollen enough to tell me the truth. Hay fever. No more rolling in the grass for me.
The late shop bewilders me with choice, too. Something I’m gonna have to get used to. I decide on Coronas at 1.19 a bottle, take four to the counter.
Guy behind the counter has a permanent scowl and rings up 5.56. I pay him, though something is nagging at me. Four beers at 1.19 isn’t 5.56. It’s 4.76. This guy’s just cheated me. I go back to the chilled area, pluck the point of sale tab from the shelf and take it to the counter.
“Excuse me,” I say, fighting the urge to say “mate”. “You charged me 1.39 per bottle. This label says they should be 1.19.”
The guy makes a face. Or, with that perma-scowl, maybe he doesn’t. Hard to tell. But he does try to fox me with some rapid-fire pidgin English. “Yeah, well I’m the owner and 1.39 is what it costs.”
If the beer’s advertised at 1.19 a bottle it should be sold at 1.19 a bottle, even if the label is a mistake, or out of date. I know that. He knows that. The guy’s just plain trying to rip me off. He’s looking at me, challenging me to do something about it. I’m looking for some retaliation that’s not gonna end in violence.
I take the beers out of the plastic bag he gave me and put them on the counter.
“I want my money back,” I say.
For a minute, I think he’s not gonna do it. Then he moves, opens up the till, gives me 5.36 in the smallest change he can. Of course, I’ve had a few already tonight and I can’t remember how much I gave him, but my sluggish brain says 5.36 isn’t right. The guy tells me to get out of the way 'cause there’s another customer behind me. I scoop up the change and move to the side. Count it up again. Definitely 5.36. I work out what 1.39 times four is and come up with the 20p difference.
The other customer pays, shooting me a look on his way out that says I’m some kind of arsehole for making a scene, or maybe for getting in his way. I go back to the counter and tell the Scowlmeister he’s short changed me to the tune of 20p. Again, it looks like he’s gonna try and get away with it. Then he mutters something angry in a foreign language and gives me the 20p, all in coppers.
I look the bastard in the eye as I say, “Thanks mate.”
He says something unpleasant sounding in that ugly language of his as I leave. I swallow what’s left of my anger and start looking for another place that sells beer.
The small hardware shop stands on the corner, plenty of traffic knocking about. I go in and a bell announces me. A fat guy comes up and asks if he can help. I tell him I need a screwdriver, decent size.
“Philips or flat-head?”
I have to think about it for a sec. “Flat. Can I see a selection? I’m not sure what I’m looking for, you know?”
The guy roots around and chucks half a dozen screwdrivers on the counter top by the till.
“What do you need it for?” he says.
I don’t answer, pick up the screwdrivers one by one and weigh them in my hand. Looking for the one that feels right. I decide on one with a blue handle.
“Think this one’ll do,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” he says, his face a big question mark.
I stab the screwdriver into his neck, twist it around to make as big a hole as possible. Make sure plenty of blood gets on my face, hands and clothes.
Five p.m., and the sun shines down on me, my eyes closed, the warmth flowing through me and bringing me to life. Screws were as good as their word, and I’m back in my old cell. They’re good lads really, them screws, and I don’t mind so much when they laugh at me. For daydreaming of life as it should be, and maybe never will be again. The cool grass and the ice cream in the midday sun, the pretty girls in their summer dresses, and always smiles, laughter and a kind word for everyone.
About the Author:
Damien Seaman, one-time reporter, editor, security guard, supermarket management trainee and factory worker, has lived in England, Belgium, Libya and now lives in Berlin, Germany. His crime fiction has appeared or is forthcoming at Pulp Pusher www.pulppusher.com and Allan Guthrie’s Noir Originals website (www.allanguthrie.co.uk). You can reach him at HYPERLINK "mailto:damien.seaman@web.de" damien.seaman@web.de