Little Boxes

Cassandra's scream wets the paint and the crowd begin to move. The Artist takes a straw and blows the runs of red paint this way and that scattering the crowd, making paths for the individual. Each tear brings forth new people, some bumping into others as they run off trying to avoid getting wet. Two trundle, locked in the same mirrored footing, left, left, right, right, left again, left again till they are forced to make eye contact and laugh, "Haha, haha, sorry, sorry," and almost bump into one and another as they move on forward again choosing the same direction, "Oops sorry, sorry, haha, haha, that always happens to me, me too," till one circumnavigates the other and strides off both thinking, 'how come that always happens to me?' At the source of the blowing two women are left standing, two semi translucent splodges of paint. The Witnesses. As The Artist pauses to discern which way they will go, they strike up a conversation. 

Cassandra's scream brings on the rain, christening The Actress' baby and wetting Henry's lips like a kiss from beyond the grave. 

"Oh God, just what we need, a loony and the bloody rain...I better get to work."

"Aye I'm coming as well, there's nothing we can do."

"No they've got it sorted and pretty quick too."

"Aye a read in the paper the other day about ambulance's taking too long to get to emergencies, people dying, but they got here real quick, this wasn't their fault."

"I know, it wasn't their fault. That girl musta come out of the window with some force."

"What a shame. A've not seen anything like it in a while, thank god she had the baby less that would have been another life, its ironic in a way, don't ye think?"

"I know, I think the other two'll be alright and the drivers look fine, well no fine but you know what I mean."

"Aye, just as usual the drivers walk away without a scratch."

"Hmmm, well I better go, no doubt we'll read all the details in the papers tomorrow, she being famous and all. I'm glad its rained tho, my plants are really needing it."

"A know, we've got tomatoes on our veranda and they really respond to some real water."

"I love my plants."

"Me too, and A don't mind the rain, A just wish A hadn't worn this linen jacket, at this rate by the time A get to the office it'll be soaked and need a good dry clean.

"And it's so expensive as well, I've got a heavy blanket..."

"...A mean A've got loads of jackets. A checked the weather forecast and it said to expect rain at 5.30, A thought A'd be home by then cause A only work till one, although you know what its like, A should have guessed really."

"Aye its been forecasting rain every day this week. We went to the beach on Sunday half expecting to be washed out but it was scorching, there were kids there in their wellies, no wanting to take them off, doing wee mock rain dances its been so long since they've seen it."

"A don't like this new weather we're having, there's no rhyme nor reason to it, just none. When A was young you knew what to expect, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Now its all different, and this traffic doesn't make it any easier, all the roadworks and filtered lanes, its distracting for anyone."

"I know and they're always doing things that no-one wants, their always changing good things and making them bad. Taking away all our green areas and commons, building fake parks, with fake grass or turf that doesn't get a chance to grow proper roots before its ripped up. I'm telling you it's us bringing the funny weather.

"Well, A don't know about that but A just don't like change, A don't like it one bit. A want everything to stay the same."

They look up, straight into the eye of The Artist. Did anyone see what happened? Can anyone bear witness? They look into the others eye.

"It looks like it's gonna be torrential, I better go."

"Aye, well, nice speaking to you. See you."

"See you." 

As they walk off The Artist decides. She pours the jam jar of water saved to clean her brushes over the whole scene, dissatisfied with what she's done. The green linen jacket disintegrates annihilating any worries about an extortionate cleaning bill. Three ambulances slip right off the page, their sirens drowned. Smoke from the tyres as they struggle to keep on the road mingles with steam rising from the hot tar. The cinema collapses. Impassioned, the Artist takes a thin brush and unfurls the reels of film, hands are drawn to roll the cannisters down the road. The puddles bleed, each scene making technicolour petrol rainbows. Characters out of context rise into the steam, into the sky to evaporate from memory. Finally the rain washes its hands of the situation and only Cassandra and Henry are left staring into their own private projections. The Artist seizes the moment and brings to life the last still bollard. The horse sets off at a trot and she mounts her. Still painting she revitalises her features adding a beatific horn and wings as they soar off into oblivion. 

"Cassie! Oh man, Cassie!" 

Henry climbs off the bus shelter and looks at Cassandra. She finally stops screaming and in that moment of recognition they embrace with a love beyond all the fumbled encounters of the previous nights, beyond their clumsy half lit relationship, both locked in given roles and expectations and never once saying a true word beyond the heartache of the sex game. A human embrace that understood the gravity of the situation .The horror reflected in their eyes spoke volumes of feeling lost to TV, to war, to the pornofication of society. Her scream subsided, Cassandra's eyes and limp body portray the devastation as if she were a mirror held up to each spectator. 

Is it the blood that shocks us? The stain left behind, dark red almost black. Its nothing like that red of the movies. 

Is it the broken windscreens? The shards of remaining glass pointing out at the scene desperately clinging to the frame, trying to deny any involvement not wanting to be swept up with the other shattered pieces strewn on the road mixed with blood and tiny pieces of flesh and ripped clothing. 

Is it the smashed watch? 

Is it The Actress's Balenciaga bag, neatly tidied up now and left by the wheel of the taxi, discarded after the paramedic raided it in search of identification? 

Is it The Paramedics, three women dressed in green, hovering unable to perform, save words of comfort. 

Is it Alice, The Victim? 

Is it her sobbing? 

She sobs as they lift her onto a gurney and wheel her into the ambulance. 

She sobs, Casandra sobs, Henry sobs, the sky sobs, the taxi driver sobs and everyone else steels themselves and gets on with their jobs. The paramedics close the doors and zoom off, the siren echoing off the high buildings, off the new cinema complex and office windows full of faces and backs of heads as people turn around to their reality. It's interesting how humans have this capacity to function normally when faced with devastation. We just rearrange the facts till we make something we can deal with, pop it in box and get on putting one foot in front of the other. But what else can we do? We don't have time to sit and think things through, to wallow in the mirth and dirt of our reality. We don't have time to analyse what's going on and make suggestions about how to make it better, or make sure it doesn't happen again. No, that's a job for someone else. Hell, that's a job for the president of the United States of America!!! We've got our jobs to do, our families to bring up, our wardrobes to dress, our bellies to feed, our time to fill. And time is money. 

Henry sits on the pavement close to Cassandra, legs and arms almost touching, the space in between charged with erotic emotion, like the space between hands on a first date.

"Do you want to come to mine...for a cup of tea?"

"I didn't think you had a mine, I mean your always at The House."

"Well I live in D_____."

"Oh."

"It's not that bad, I just got fed up with it, there's nowhere to go. The House is different. I mean it takes ages to get there but its worth it, especially first thing in the morning coming into town, I love the dark, the smell of the trees, heavy with blackness waiting for the light to feed them, and the smell of the boat and the fresh soap of the dock workers trying to hide the oil from the previous days work, but you can still smell it... and all the people waking up each day and getting on with their private routines. It's the same at night, that's why I always wait till the last boat."

"Oh, I thought you were just avoiding me."

"Avoiding myself more like.”

"It can't go on though."

"No, I guess it can't. Do you have somewhere else.”

"Yes, I live with my mum in Aberdeen.”

"Are you a runaway?"

"No, she's the one got me the job here. She knows where I am. What about you?”

“I am, of sorts.”

“I thought so.”

“What you gonna do about The House?”

“Try to find my boss, explain what happened.”

“What happened?”

“Let's get a cup of tea, I'm gasping.”

- THE END -